


For Love of Mithril

by erunyauve



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erunyauve/pseuds/erunyauve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guilt and ghosts of the past lead Celebrimbor to betray his King and lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forlond, SA 40

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: With the exception of a few supporting roles and much embellishment, everything belongs to Mr Tolkien.

Celebrimbor runs a fingertip lightly over the raw metal. It is malleable, delightfully pliant to the smith's merest whisper. Yet it can also be resistant - everything depends on the forging technique. The metal has an air of innocence, for it bears little of Morgoth's taint. Most of all, it is precious, coaxed in ever-decreasing amounts from the Ered Luin. His contact has warned him there will be no more; the dwarves have tapped out the last vein and are leaving the Ered Luin for Khazad-dûm. (1)

Too beautiful to resist, too rare to mould with an uncertain hand, it awaits him; untouched, it is restless.

* * *

Celebrimbor looks at the boat dubiously - the Noldor do not put out to sea. "Are you certain it will not sink?"

Gil-galad takes out his knife. "Will this knife lose its edge?"

"My blades never dull."

"And I assure that you my boat will not sink."

Celebrimbor sighs heavily and climbs into the stern with the enthusiasm of a corsair's captive. Gil-galad unties the mooring ropes and pushes off from the dock, leaping into the boat with the grace of a _Falathren_ mariner. (2)

_He scrubs his hands raw in the cold salt water thrown upon the deck by Ossë's outrage. Celebrimbor can no longer tell whether the blood is his own or that of another. He knows only that the soiling comes from within and even should he flay his skin to the very bone, he will never feel clean._

"Celebrimbor?"

He jumps at the light touch on his shoulder, expecting, for a moment, to see Maglor standing over him. Blue-grey eyes study him with an intensity that peels away the layers hiding all that he would forget.

Celebrimbor glances away, shuttering his eyes, and forces a weak grin. "If my lord will impress his subjects to maritime service, then he must accept their unfitness for the sea."

Gil-galad releases his gaze reluctantly and rows the craft into the gulf, guiding it with a watchful eye; Forlond's harbour is riddled with jagged rocks beneath the surface. Despite his attention to this task, the tension of the day melts from his shoulders and his face relaxes as the frown lines in his forehead smooth away. It strikes the smith that the younger elf seems as easy here as Celebrimbor in his forge; he is as much the child of his sea-loving foster father and Sindarin mother as his Noldorin father.

"These past years have not been easy for you," he observes.

"It is a greater burden than I imagined. On Balar I always felt as if I could not go terribly wrong, for I always had Círdan to guide me." They have come through the rocks and Gil-galad adjusts the sail so that the wind propels them at an easy pace. He turns to face Celebrimbor. "They expect wisdom from me, yet each day I find that I know less."

"Is that not why you have advisors?"

Gil-galad looks at his hands, twisting his ring, a sibling to Finrod's serpent and flower, around his finger. "I am not certain that I can trust them."

'You are wary as your father was not,' Celebrimbor thinks. Perhaps Gil-galad is wise to hold his elders at arm's length. Very little had been left to the young King to decide during the years on Balar, but his intuition has proved sound; he has a measure of Vanyarin insight common to all of Finarfin's descendants. He must learn to trust in it.

"Aye, that is the difficulty: to decide which among them have wisdom, for experience does not always make the best teacher," he says aloud.

"Of all our kindred, only two would I trust entirely, for never have they failed me." Terse enunciation, harsh and unmusical, betrays bitterness.

Celebrimbor's eyes narrow and this time, Gil-galad turns away from eyes that delve too deeply. Instead, he looks west, across the endless waters toward the mouth of the gulf and Belegaer beyond. "Somewhere, beneath all that, is the past," he murmurs.

Celebrimbor would pursue this, but Gil-galad's face is closed to him. His companion speaks instead of sea turtles in Mithlond, his face illuminated with boyish wonder as he describes the hatchlings in their scramble for the sea.

He breathes a prayer of thanks to Uinen when they dock. Gil-galad stands as the other elf prepares to alight; he will sail for Mithlond this night, for rather than take up temporary lodging in Forlond while the palace is built, he remains with Círdan.

"You see that my boat does not sink."

"And yet I shall be glad enough to feel solid ground under my feet again. May your journey to Mithlond be uneventful, and Ossë find amusement far from your wake."

Gil-galad grins ruefully - his relationship with the Maia has always been delicate. "I return in six days. Tell me that the doors will be done."

"The doors shall be done, my liege."

The younger elf looses the moorings. _"Tyelpë, nas tye,"_ he says in parting. He has pushed away from the dock before Celebrimbor can respond. (3)

* * *

Aland's tavern is busy this night, but then, it does a brisk trade on any night. Tucked away in a cellar, the dark little hole is grimy with soot from forges above the tavern. Strong liquor flows in quantity; the elves who drink it want to forget, for a while, if they can.

Celebrimbor weaves around the perimeter, hooded and silent, and takes his usual place in the corner. A serving-girl brings him a drink; he has no need to give his order, as Aland does not deal in wines and spirits for the refined palate.

_'Tyelpë, he is you.'_

He does not know what discomfits him more: an epessë he has not heard since the beginning of this Age, or Gil-galad's cautiously-given trust. The charge fits uneasily about Celebrimbor's shoulders, as a mantle meant for one of greater stature, one such as Círdan - Celebrimbor is not worthy to share Gil-galad's esteem with that virtuous elf. He takes a long swallow of his drink; the liquor is acrid and rough as it slides down his throat. He finds it soothing.

He cannot do this - cannot be this.

"The scions of Fëanor do not embrace our kin, _Artanáro_. We burn them." (4)

* * *

(1) it bears little of Morgoth's taint  
Morgoth integrated himself into the fabric of Arda, which is why Beleriand had to be destroyed - he had poisoned the land beyond any hope of reclamation. Tolkien tells us that Morgoth favoured gold and his influence on that metal was strong (even after his defeat in the War of Wrath), but he had little to do with silver. ( _Morgoth's Ring_ , 'Myths Transformed' p 400 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(2) _Falathren  
_ lit. 'of the shore' - Círdan's people were known as the _Falathrim_ , 'people of the shore'.

(3) _"Tyelpë, nas tye."  
_ "Tyelpë, it is you" Q. _Tyelpë_ , 'silver', is short for Celebrimbor's Quenya name, _Tyelperinquar_. _nas_ is formed from _ná_ , 'to be' and the third person subjective pronominal ending _-s_ ( _The Road Goes Ever On_ , 'Namárië' p 67 pub Harper Collins); _tye_ , 'you', is a bit questionable, as it dates to an early fragment and Tolkien revised his pronouns quite a bit over the years. However, it fits into the scheme of his more recent pronominal systems and, in any case, we have no other word attested for informal singular 'you' as an object. ( _The Lost Road_ , 'The Lost Road' p 77 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(4) _Artanáro  
_ Gil-galad's Quenya name.


	2. Midsummer, SA 40

His belongings hardly fill a sea-chest; even if he had possessed great riches on Balar, the hurried flight from the isle would not have permitted him to carry them away.

Bare feet dangle over the edge of the fishing dock as he shares a simple breakfast of bread and berries with Círdan. Birds call to one another as the first blinding rays of Anor mount the Ered Luin, casting the elves' shadows seaward.

"It is not an end but a beginning, Ereinion."

Gil-galad can see the shine of tears in his foster-father's eyes and his throat constricts in a similar fashion. "I know, and I am not unwilling - I know my duty. Yet, I feel that once again I leave behind everything I have known, and I cannot fail, Círdan." He turns anxious eyes upon the other elf. "I have not your foresight and I have relied much upon your wisdom since Turgon fell."

"You will lead them well - my heart is certain of this. You have chosen wisely for your people thus far, and I see no reason you should not continue to do so." Círdan stands. "But, the day is wasting, and you have far to go."

Gil-galad shakes the crumbs from his napkin into the sea. A family of sea birds descends upon the bread as he rises to follow Círdan to the boat. While Gil-galad makes final adjustments, Círdan walks back to the beach, returning as the younger elf settles himself on the thwart.

"You might be needing these."

Gil-galad takes his boots with a grin.

Círdan crouches on the dock, unwinding the ropes that hold the boat fast. "Do not be led astray by the appearance of peace on the lands. Many foul servants of Morgoth did not share in his defeat." He stands; his last words are not meant for Gil-galad's ears, but they carry nonetheless above the splash of oars: "The peril is nearer than you realise."

* * *

"The _Hadhodrim_ make doors that none can breach." (1)

Gil-galad thinks of Círdan's warning, and he wonders if Celebrimbor, too, senses a shadow lurking beneath the horizon. He has no time to question him further, however. A crew has come to hang the great doors and Celebrimbor is eager to study the dwarves' methods.

Though the fashioning of the doors is Dwarven, the embellishments are Celebrimbor's work. Encased in white steel of Curufin's invention, a weave of delicate flowers and slender vines decorates the margins, soldered so perfectly that the ornamentation has become a seamless extension of the metal underneath it. Gil-galad does not share his grandfather's talent for smithery, yet he understands beauty.

In the work area, Celebrimbor speaks to a dwarf in a low voice - discussing the doors, Gil-galad guesses from Celebrimbor's gestures. He cannot understand the words that reach him; their harsh sound is not of Eldarin origin. The elf moves fluidly, his loosely-bound hair tumbling over his shoulder as he speaks. Gil-galad has a sudden urge to catch the silken tresses in his hands, to feel them slide over his skin. (2)

He only half-listens to Luinel as she rattles off details regarding work yet to be done. Lalwen's daughter is as immovable as her cousins Aredhel and Galadriel, and she will do as she sees fit - he has only to nod in the right places.

"I think it best that you address the people formally at Midsummer," Luinel says, startling him. He grants her his full attention, but she speaks now of other matters. He cannot argue with her instincts - a formal address of the High King is expected, but in the mirror of his mind, he sees a young and untried elf who can hardly pretend to stand in the shoes of his storied predecessors. He wonders if his people will see the same image. Certainly, his advisors would agree with the mirror - their eyes cannot entirely hide their frustration with the young king: he is not Fingolfin or Fingon.

* * *

The last hours before Midsummer find him pacing the gallery of the first floor, fruitlessly trying to pull his hair out of the silver cord that secures his braid. He has changed robes three times and summoned Luinel twice to rehearse the schedule. (3)

"I have been sent to occupy you. You are driving Luinel to distraction, and she has threatened to ask Arien to delay her appointed time of rising if you do not leave her in peace."

Just as his mother once relied on Celebrimbor to keep an energetic elf-child out of her hair during festivals, Luinel has now asked Celebrimbor to do the same with a nervous King. "It is like old times, then," Gil-galad says, amused in spite of himself.

A look he cannot read passes over his kinsman's face.

A young elf of the palace guard - Moebeth, Gil-galad thinks- enters the gallery. " _Tauren_ , it is time." (4)

In the gardens before the palace a great crowd has gathered. Velvet and silk banners festoon the balcony in Finwë's silver and blue; again, Gil-galad thinks of Nargothrond and the white and gold of Finarfin's House. The crowd quiets, their ears straining, for he speaks with the soft voice of his father - and Finarfin before him. His worries melt away; language is the gift of all elves and his tongue finds the words almost effortlessly. He touches briefly upon the sorrows of Beleriand and the War of Wrath - this is a day of celebration, and he would not shroud it in grief. He speaks of the pardon he has granted to the people of Maedhros and Maglor - another thorny subject, and moves quickly on to the unveiling of the great doors and dedication of the palace. (5,6)

"...Today, I name this great edifice Minas Silivren, and dedicate it to you, the people whose arts and unwavering service have made it grand. For it is more than a King's residence - it is a monument to the great works of the Noldor. We are no longer Exiles - we who remain have chosen this land, and we look upon a new day of peace and creation. May the Valar's protection and guidance be upon us in all we do." (7)

As he finishes his speech, he sees respect and pride in the faces of his people and he knows that he has won their hearts. He basks in the glow of their love as the celebration begins in earnest, with dancing on the lawns behind the palace and great trestles laden with food in the gardens. The merrymakers wear happy, unworried expressions; most of these elves are Beleriand-born, driven in the Elder days not by oath or revenge but dreams of peace and prosperity. This, the High King has offered to them, and they look forward to endeavours other than the making of war and weapons.

By custom, he stands with his honour guard after his speech, formally greeting a long queue of well-wishers. He begins to suspect that his smile has permanently frozen in place and wonders just how many elves could possibly inhabit Forlond. To his everlasting gratitude, Luinel rescues him, shooing away the crowd that he might eat and dance.

Neither hungry nor inclined to dance, he wants a moment of solitude. The gardens before the tower are deserted, as he had hoped. No light but Ithil shines upon them, and the great doors glow the more brightly in the darkness. He has not had the opportunity to study the doors in all their moonlit splendour, and he sees now that his rough sketch of the design could not anticipate Celebrimbor's work. Each emblem is drawn in exquisite detail; ithildin lends shadow and highlight to the interlaced ornamentation at the edges of the doors. The sight is breathtaking.

"You did well." Celebrimbor squeezes his shoulders in congratulation and lets his arm relax into a comfortable embrace, hand falling to rest at his hip.

"As did you. The doors are beautiful."

Celebrimbor shrugs. "This is simple work, such as any smith or artist could do. My grandfather created wondrous things before he made the Silmarilli, but neither my father nor I have done his memory justice. My father spent more time hunting with Celegorm than working in the forge, and in Beleriand, he did nothing but destroy beautiful things. And I -"

"You spent the last Age making weapons. You hardly had time for great works."

"Nay, it is not that. I lack the knowledge. I was not so old when we left Aman, hardly six hundred as we now reckon time, and only beginning to learn all that Aulë could teach me. And there is no teacher like him in Ennor."

"Why did you not return to Aman?"

"I did not fear the judgment of the Valar," Celebrimbor answers quickly. He is silent for a moment. "I cannot avoid their judgment. Even if I can bring some measure of honour back to my House, and give where we have taken, such efforts cannot erase what I have done - but it brings me some solace to serve my King and people. This, I would not find in Aman."

"I hope that such redemption as you seek may come to you, Tyelpë, though it will be a grief to see your work finished and your heart set upon Aman. Just now, though, I am glad enough that you remain."

His speech is careful, no more than a king should say to a valued counsellor, though perhaps 'Tyelpë' presumes too much. It matters not; his body has no such cares. He leans into the arm thrown across his back, into Celebrimbor's cinnamon warmth and inclines his head toward breath that does not quite tickle his ear but sends gentle shocks through his body.

Celebrimbor moves away abruptly. "They will be missing you."

As they return to the crowded gardens , Gil-galad is grateful for the darkness that hides the flush in his cheeks. Without another word, he accepts an elf-maid's invitation to dance. His shame mingles with regret for something he has not yet found but has nonetheless lost.

* * *

He has not occupied such lavishly-appointed rooms since he was a child at Nargothrond. The bed is magnificent - high and broad, its heavy curtains embrace a nest of fine linen and down. On this summer's eve, the chambermaid has tied back the bed-curtains and thrown open the windows to a cooling draught from the sea.

Restless, Gil-galad turns over to lie on his back; he is tired, but his dreams will not still his agitation. The scent of cinnamon lingers in his memory; his ear tingles where warm breath caressed it. A pleasant shudder courses through his body and almost unconsciously, he begins to stroke himself, feeding physical sensation with images of a prominent jaw, of raven hair tied loosely back, of shoulders and biceps well defined by a millennium in the forge. Thoughts of bare skin pressed to his aroused flesh come unbidden and he is boneless, unable to command the shame and horror he knew he should be feeling. Nothing but his need matters until he stiffens, his heart racing, joyous release flooding every nerve ending.

The chambermaid will give him knowing looks tomorrow. He turns on his side, away from the sticky evidence, and sighs as his rational mind reasserts itself. He will not sleep this night.

He is young according to the measure of the Eldar, but he understands the difference between friendship and love, the boundary between kinship and lust. His newfound awareness of Celebrimbor would horrify the older elf. In any case, he understands that he is meant to take a wife and produce an heir; he is the last of the male line, and his penchant for sailing alone at sea twists his counsellors into nervous fits.

They have reason to be nervous. Only loyalty to the High King persuades former residents of Arvernien to exist side by side with those who slew their loved ones. Should anything happen to him, the fragile peace might splinter into a dozen factions; another Kinslaying is not impossible. He needs an heir, not a lover.

To the throb of his sated member, his heart gives an answering ache.

* * *

(1) _Hadhodrim  
_ Dwarves. Celebrimbor would undoubtedly use this particular term, as it is the term the dwarves themselves preferred (it is actually a Sindarin rendering of the Khuzdûl cognate, _Khazâd_ ).

(2) their harsh sound is not of Eldarin origin  
 _'Curufin was most interested in the alien language of the Dwarves, being the only one of the Noldor to win their friendship. It was from him that the loremasters obtained such knowledge as they could of Khuzdûl.'_ ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 358 pub Houghton Mifflin) It seems reasonable that Curufin's son might also have learnt the language, especially given his friendship with the dwarves in Eregion.

(3) The last hours before Midsummer  
The Elvish day begins at sundown, so the last hours before Midsummer 'Day' would coincide with the evening before the Solstice.

(4) _Tauren  
_ my king. From _taur_ , 'king' and _-(e)n_ , first person possessive suffix. We have this form of address attested in Quenya ( _aranya_ ) in Erendis' message to her father-in-law. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , 'Aldarion and Erendis' p 186 pub Houghton Mifflin, Kindle Edition). There is also a Quenya phrase for 'your majesty', _Aran Meletyalda_ , lit 'king your mighty' ( _The War of the Jewels_ , 'Quendi and Eldar' p 369 pub Houghton Mifflin), but Sindarin blends the words for 'mighty' and 'high king' into one word, _taur_. So, I've gone with _Tauren_ as the nearest thing to 'Sire' in Sindarin.

(5) white and gold of Finarfin's House  
I'm attempting to resolve the blue and silver of Gil-galad's emblem with his eventual placement in the House of Finarfin. Obviously, Tolkien had Fingon and the House of Fingolfin in mind when he drew Gil-galad's emblem. Blue and silver are very definitely associated with Fingolfin ( _The Silmarillion_ , 'Of the Return of the Noldor' p 123 pub Ballantine/Del Rey). I've waffled with the canon a bit in imagining that such colours are associated with the High King rather than with any one House, and hence, would be taken up by Gil-galad upon Turgon's death. The 'white and gold' comes from Finarfin's emblem. (Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull, _J.R.R. Tolkien: Artist & Illustrator_, 'Patterns and Devices' pp 193-5 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(6) the soft voice of his father - and Finarfin before him  
 _But Finarfin spoke softly, as was his wont... ._ ( _The Silmarillion_ , 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' p 74) pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition)

(7) Minas Silivren  
The details of Gil-galad's palace are entirely fabricated. The name means 'Tower of White-Shining'.


	3. Iavas, SA 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the background for this chapter appears in 'There Came a Time of Winter', a one-shot that takes place at Nargothrond.

He has laboured many hours in the forge and tolerates heat better than most, but he feels that an ice-bath could not cool him this morning. His discomfort rouses him from bed and he shutters the windows against the light, only to find that the moist air lingers like a wet blanket on his skin. The stillness is suffocating.

Unconscionable.

The boy is a grown elf now, not the child he remembers. Gil-galad's thoughts are closed to him; his grief is private, his face betrays no feeling. Yet Celebrimbor can sense the warring emotions beneath such composure: the anger of an abandoned child, the guilt of an adult keening silently for his family. Celebrimbor's heart contracts as if it, too, is wounded - a symbiosis of feeling that is not the _mîl_ of friends and kin, but the _anírad_ of lovers. (1,2)

He has been as a brother to Gil-galad: to an elf-child bewildered by war and death; to a young adult labouring under responsibilities beyond his years. Though their blood is more distant, his desire feels incestuous, violatory.

He hides the truth in a secret place, outwardly playing the role of kinsman and mentor. Since Midsummer Night, he has felt raw and fragile. He cannot put his heart into its box again; it no longer fits. At odd moments, he watches Gil-galad, and he is aware that he watches with the eyes of a predator. Yet, it seems to him that the other elf is near to him more than he ought to be - that the prey tracks the predator.

Unconscionable.

His dreamscapes fill him with longing and revulsion. Lingering visions of tangled sheets, damp with sweat and sex, set him afire even as he burns with the shame of a thief.

He works at night, retiring as the first light glows on the horizon. In an Age now past, the night became a refuge from kin so changed he hardly knew them. Now, the night brings relief from his own ill-fated obsession.

He takes the crucible from the fire and pours it into a mould. As he waits for the silver to cool, it occurs to him that this necklace, intended for the daughter of Duilin, might be more than the customary begetting day gift of a king to a courtier. He takes a deep breath, his finger tracing the sapphires of the necklace absently. It would be a good match for the King. The Gondolindrim have resented Gil-galad's charity toward the Fëanorians - a marriage to the daughter of a fallen hero could be useful. Moreover, she is near in age to Gil-galad and quite lovely.

"It is a poor night for sleeping. I do not disturb you, I hope?"

Celebrimbor starts at the interruption. He lets Gil-galad's question hang unanswered. He would ask about the necklace, but fears he will betray himself.

Gil-galad sits at the worktable, his chin resting in his hand and his legs folded under him. He is an early riser but does not sleep well; Celebrimbor can recall many nights when a small elf watched him at work, curled into much the same position. The image of the child fades into the long limbs and lean face of the adult and his groin throbs even as the coppery taste of shame floods his mouth.

He returns to his work but the necklace blurs before his eyes. With tangled locks loose around his face, Gil-galad is at once innocent and desirable - as unguarded now as he is distant in his robes of state, with his hair tightly braided and his eyes hooded with wariness. Gil-galad has dropped this defence here, in Celebrimbor's presence.

He examines the work he has just done and knows he will have to melt it down and start again. He reaches for the tongs and yanks his hand back in shock - he has forgotten to put on a glove. With a hiss, he plunges his hand into a barrel of water kept in case of fire. When the pain subsides, he turns away from the barrel and nearly steps on the other elf.

Gil-galad reaches for the injured hand. "It is not too bad - it is already starting to heal."

Celebrimbor stares dumbly at the rough, caloused hands, hands that hold his own hand a fraction longer than necessary.

Gil-galad retreats, his eyes evasive. "Perhaps I disturb you after all. I should go."

Celebrimbor cannot tell if the colour in Gil-galad's cheeks is a trick of the firelight or something more. When the other elf has gone, he turns back to the fire and takes up the tongs again, and this time he does not drop them when the hot metal burns his flesh.

* * *

(1) _mîl  
_ love

(2) _anírad  
_ desire (lit. 'desiring', the gerund of _aníro_ , 'to desire'). It was the best I could do to render the difference between _agapé_ and _eran_.


	4. Forlond, SA 200

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tehta for all the helpful suggestions and nitpicks. I have borrowed Saelbeth from Peter Jackson to do some copying - he will be returned more or less unharmed.

"Then we are settled on the matter of the iron tax?" Gil-galad turns away from the window. They have dithered over this much of the afternoon. Numerous issues await the council's attention, but at the current pace, Arda will be unmade before all of them are addressed.

"I think so, yes." Elrond looks at his notes and reads the new law.

"We have not agreed at all upon the tariffs portion," Elemmakil objects.

"The law will be proclaimed as written," Gil-galad says firmly. "We would do ill, I think, to hinder trade with _Hadhodrond_." Fëanorians do most of the work with steel and find the iron of the Ered Luin unsuitable for this alloy. Elemmakil will hear his decision as a slight to the elves - mostly former Gondolindrim - who mine the Ered Luin. Still, Gil-galad must think of the needs of all his people; the Noldor depend on trade with the dwarves. Elemmakil is not likely to see reason, however - he who once loved Egalmoth has no love for the Kinslayers. (1,2)

"The afternoon grows long and our minds dull. Shall we adjourn?" Pengolodh says.

"One matter remains, Tauren. The council grows increasingly concerned that you have not yet chosen a wife."

"That is hardly the business of this council, Arphenion," Celebrimbor snaps.

"On the contrary, the security of the realm depends upon the certainty of an heir." The elf turns to Gil-galad. "You do not seem eager to bind yourself to the daughter of Duilin."

"I have not asked for the council's advice in this matter."

" _Goheno nin_." Fingon's former steward wears a mask of contrition that fails to convince his King. Arphenion had favoured Maedhros in the early days of Gil-galad's reign, and though he seems resigned to the latter's leadership, his eyes gleam with spiteful mischief that Gil-galad instantly recognises; he has seen it in the eyes of his own kinsmen. (3)

As the council adjourns, Elrond falls into step beside him. "Excuse my impertinence, but you look as if you have battled orcs, balrogs and dragons all at once."

"I think I have. That is not a council, Elrond - it is a nest of vipers. Each time these tax issues arise, my counsellors think only of their interest. I cannot at once appease them and be just to all my people."

"I do not think Elemmakil means to make things difficult for you. But perhaps there is a solution. You are not bound to the decisions of the council, after all. If you were to act on your own, before my fellow counsellors got wind of it, you would save yourself a good deal of grief."

"And what is it that you think I should do?"

Elrond gives him a sly look. "The tax code is terribly outdated - Forlindon is no longer a realm in the process of building itself. The entire code should be updated to reflect that. We will simply rewrite it and have it proclaimed tomorrow."

Gil-galad grins; he has learnt that there is much more to Elrond than his age would imply. He knows that Elrond will be fair, for he is by nature - or perhaps by necessity, given his background - a diplomat. "I had no idea you were so devious, Elrond Peredhel."

"'Practical', I think, is the word you wanted," Elrond protests with a smile.

They retire to Gil-galad's private study with a great pile of scrolls and what proves to be an excellent vintage from the vineyards of Harlindon. The wine merchants, Gil-galad decides, will have their reward for making this tedious task more bearable.

He has more patience for detail than his father had possessed, and such patience gives him the freedom to act without appeal to his advisors. He will not depend on them to his ruin, as Arothir had done. Nonetheless, he would rather wander his dreamscapes than tear his braid apart over granite and gilt.

"I am not even certain what it is that we are taxing. What in Arda is 'litharge'?"

"It is a lead paint used for glass and ceramics."

Gil-galad rubs his eyes. The tax, then, would have to fit into the scheme for such goods. He silently blesses the Peredhel's encyclopaedic knowledge of obscurities - he and Elrond make fine compliments in talent and temperament and he has come to depend on his youngest counsellor for these administrative tasks.

Anor sends her first thin rays into the room as Elrond finishes work on the last scroll. He gathers the sheaves of foolscap. "I will take these to Saelbeth for copying - he has a fair hand and discrete tongue."

Gil-galad nods - it will not do to alert the council before the proclamation. "I only wish I could so neatly resolve the question of my marriage."

"If I may speak candidly, Tauren, I think you would solve that more easily if you loved the lady."

He glances at Elrond, surprised by his perception. "I cannot blame the council for growing anxious - three hundred and fifty is an unusual age to reach without marrying. Many who remain so long unmarried never marry at all." (4)

'Or pursue relations that can never produce an heir,' he adds silently.

"I think that is better than marriage without love." With a bow, Elrond takes his leave.

Gil-galad realises that he will have no rest; already, the chambermaid will be drawing his bath. Indeed, as he mounts the stairs, he sees his nocturnal kinsman in the dusky rotunda, preparing to turn in for the day.

Celebrimbor is not alone, and the manner of his companion seems all too familiar as they enter the Fëanorian's chambers.

He is rather shocked - he is not so innocent as to believe that the two plan to talk of smithery at this hour. His father had honoured the Laws and the Valar, and Círdan has taught Gil-galad to do likewise. Worse still, Celebrimbor's forbidden tryst discomforts him less than the lust and jealousy it inspires, and he firmly puts out of his mind thoughts of cinnamon and sweat slick between entwined bodies.

Better, it would be, for him to marry and put what is unattainable out of his mind. He will not follow in the wake of Maeglin, where love would grow bitter and twisted in time. He would not be unhappy with Thilia - but will he make her unhappy, loving and yet unloved? All at once, he is overcome with weariness. A stack of correspondence awaits him at his desk, and his mind is thick and slow. A walk, perhaps, will revive him.

A brisk wind blows across the heath from the frozen seas in the north, tempering the arrival of Ethuil. Forlindon is a barren land, rich with mineral and hard stone but poor in soil. His mother would have loved this land, he thinks. The Sindar of Lake Mithrim had taken a perverse pleasure in their hostile climate and unforgiving terrain. Today, the harsh beauty of Forlindon suits his mood as much as the icy wind revives his body. He returns in better spirits, less daunted now by the work awaiting him.

"Tauren, might I have a word?"

Gil-galad pauses to allow Thilia to catch up to him. "You know you need not address me with such formality."

"Need I not? If we might have some privacy?" She inclines her head toward an alcove.

Gil-galad pulls the portière closed. "What is it that you wish to discuss?"

"What, precisely, _is_ my standing in your court?"

He cannot say that he has not taken pleasure in their courting. She has been a distraction and for that, he is grateful. Yet, she deserves to be more than a distraction.

"I see," she says softly, drawing from his silence what he is unable to word with just kindness or his heartfelt regret.

He chokes under a wave of self-loathing and senses that a jewel slips through his fingers - a thing of great value that he should want, that his position as King demands that he want. His heart pursues what is impossible and foolish.

At the lady's word, he grants her the small comfort of solitude. As he slips through the portière, he nearly collides with Arphenion.

"Were you never taught that it is rude to eavesdrop?"

"Treasonous, even, when the subject of one's eavesdropping is one's King," Arphenion agrees. "But it was not intentional, I assure you. I believe we were to meet this morning."

Gil-galad wonders if Vairë has been deliberately malicious in the weaving of the past two days. At this point, news of an orc battalion waiting outside the gates of Minas Silivren would not surprise him.

"So, Lady Thilia has not been found suitable. Pity. You would have made beautiful children together."

"What is your interest in this, Arphenion? If you want the lady for yourself, I fear she has more sense than you credit her."

"You wound me. But my inclinations lie elsewhere."

"So I have heard."

Arphenion snickers. "The young lady may be blind, but those less interested have seen how you look at another."

Gil-galad stops at the door to the armoury. "Idle gossip may also be called treasonous when it concerns your King."

A fleeting crack appears in the other elf's smug expression. "I shall keep that in mind." Arphenion opens the door. "After you, my liege."

They are to discuss weapon orders with the arms-master, but a young elf sits in the master's place. "He went to speak with the quartermaster, Tauren. I fear he thought the meeting postponed." He looks nervously from Arphenion to the King.

Arphenion thrusts a shield and spear into Gil-galad's hands and takes up sword and shield of his own. "Shall we take some exercise, then, while we await his return?"

Gil-galad narrows his eyes, guessing that the arms master's absence is no accident.

He has not named Arphenion Captain of the Guard for sentimental reasons, and though Círdan has trained him well, he has never speared anything but fish. He is utterly untried in combat, and Arphenion will expect to have the advantage.

In the exercise yard, a master gives instruction to several pairs of young warriors. They cease their contests as their King and Captain emerge, weapons in hand. With resignation, Gil-galad strips off his robes and hands them to a page. Honour demands that he take up the challenge. "Your treachery wins you no allies," he hisses, raising his shield to block Arphenion's sword.

"Neither will your use of Lady Thilia."

The other elf mounts a swift attack, and the flurry of Arphenion's blade requires every bit of Gil-galad's concentration. Still, though he gamely meets sword with shield, he steadily loses ground to his opponent.

"Treachery, I think, is exactly the word one might use for this pretence of seeking a wife."

"Treachery, it would be, to marry with promises of love I cannot fulfil." Arphenion's assault relents for a moment. With the cat's paw hovering over him, Gil-galad launches an assault of his own. He forces Arphenion to step back and scores an advantage when the sword twists out of Arphenion's hand. He thrusts forward, seeing his chance, but the other elf catches the shaft of his spear and pulls Gil-galad toward him until they are nearly nose to nose.

"So, it is a maid equally disaffected that you seek? One so frigid that she shudders in relief at your inattention?" Arphenion's voice takes on a seductive tone, rising and falling with such hypnotic fascination that Gil-galad has neither the will to shutter his eyes nor the wits to move. "Even as you couple to produce the required heir, your mind will be elsewhere, your passion consumed by thoughts of your cousin." (5)

Gil-galad yanks his spear free of Arphenion's grip. Flush with anger, he catches the other elf unguarded, and though the point of his spear is blunted for training, the force of his lunge knocks the other elf to the ground.

Arphenion smiles.

Gil-galad realises too late that his unlooked-for victory has been assured from the start. The Captain is far too clever to best his King in a public sparring match, but with Gil-galad thus engaged, Arphenion has outwitted him in the contest of words. He snatches his discarded robes from the hands of the page and stalks from the yard under the oliphauntine weight of one spectator's gaze. He dares not meet Celebrimbor's eyes.

* * *

(1) _Hadhodrond  
_ Khazad-dûm

(2) Elemmakil & Egalmoth  
In an early version of Gondolin's fall, Tolkien tells us that Egalmoth escapes from Gondolin but dies in the battle at the mouth of Sirion - though at this point in the mythology, Melkor, not the sons of Fëanor, is the assailant. (ref _The Book of Lost Tales II_ , 'The Fall of Gondolin' p 217 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) Elemmakil appears only (as far as I know) in _Unfinished Tales_ , and I don't believe Tolkien ever tells us of his fate.

(3) _Goheno nin.  
_ Forgive me.

(4) "Three hundred and fifty is an unusual age to reach without marrying."  
 _'The Eldar wedded for the most part in their youth and soon after their fiftieth year.'_ (ref _Morgoth's Ring_ , 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar' p 210 pub Houghton Mifflin) Of course, most of the examples we have do not support this, but we can suppose that this was the norm.

(5) cousin  
I've used 'cousin' here in the generic sense of 'kinsman' - technically, Gil-galad and Celebrimbor would be half-second-cousins, once removed.


	5. Forlond, SA 200 - Part II

The narrow strip of sunlight before the window tells Celebrimbor that morning has all but passed. Dull pain flits through his consciousness. He remembers wine and its inevitable melancholy; he remembers a youth of two hundred who bore the faintest resemblance to the High King.

He seeks cover, a mask behind which he can hide from himself, but a glimpse of silver cord flashing over the heads of courtiers alters his path to the forge.

They present a stunning tableau together: the handsome young King, stripped to vest and leggings that cling with the sweat of exertion to his sinewy form; the formidable Captain with dancer-like grace in his swordsmanship. Yet Celebrimbor senses a tension between the pair that intensifies when they become locked for a moment in close combat. Raw and bestial, it throbs just under the awareness of most of the spectators, but pricks like needles at Celebrimbor's skin. He can almost smell the musk of this territorial dance.

Arphenion yields to the honour of the High King, but his mouth distorts in the leer of a predator who only toys with his prey. Gil-galad is snappish in victory, humiliated; he will not meet Celebrimbor's eyes.

* * *

"Your cloak does little to disguise you when you wear the ring of your House."

"What are you playing at, Arphenion? You continually undermine the High King, yet now you seek a place in his bed? You are a little old for such adolescent games."

A serving girl sets a glass on the table. Arphenion samples it with an expression of distaste. "I see now why you are so fond of this place. Even the liquor offers no comfort." He sets down the glass. "Worry not, the High King has no interest in me. He remains under the wise but hopeless conviction that he should marry some elf-maid who will bear him an heir."

"Then do not stand in his way." Let Gil-galad marry, let him put an end to temptation.

Arphenion laughs. "It is not me who stands in his way, but you."

Celebrimbor reddens. "I have never-."

"You have never seen how he looks at you."

"You disgust me. I knew him as a child - we are kin. It would be incestuous."

"Oh, please. Must you find your guilt in everything you do? He is no longer a child, Celebrimbor." He inclines his head toward a farrier speaking of the new tax code. "He is the High King, by the Valar. Do you think he is some ingénue to be seduced?"

"Yes."

Arphenion snickers. "There, you are perhaps right. But all the more reason to seduce him before someone less worthy - like me - does so."

"I have known few elves so utterly without conscience."

"And that is no small compliment from the son of Curufin."

Celebrimbor bares his teeth. "It was not a compliment."

"Nonetheless, I am right."

* * *

He cannot blame Arphenion for his moral failure, not entirely. 'At the base of our minds are the instincts of the _hroa_. Cleave away the love of beauty, arrest the conscience that feels the pain of another and the love of Eru, and Elda becomes _Urco_ ,' Rúmil had once taught him. Wax he might, and eloquently, of love and yearning of the _fëa_ , but he is too prone to introspection not to recognise the fleshly desires that pave the way beneath his feet. (1,2,3)

He meets the Gil-galad's valet in the rotunda. A moment of near-disastrous, near-comical juggling of tea things and elbows ensues as the Falathren elf tries to stop Celebrimbor in the antechamber in order to properly announce his arrival. In the end, the precarious state of the tea forces Elwandor to give way.

" _Hîr_ Celebrimbor requests an audience, híren." (4)

"Indeed," Gil-galad says dryly. "Leave the tea in my chambers. You may retire for the night, Elwandor.

"What brings you here so late?" he continues when his valet has left, pulling his hair free of its silver cord.

Celebrimbor, caught by the sensuality of gleaming tresses tumbling forth as Gil-galad unwinds his braid, does not answer immediately. Kin, they share the heavy locks of indigo-black, the sardonic curve of eyebrow, the high forehead. Kin, they differ still more in look and circumstance. Gil-galad is taller; Celebrimbor is stronger. He has the firm, elegant chin of Míriel; Gil-galad has his Sindarin mother's high cheekbones. Celebrimbor's eyes have just a touch of Finwëan blue; Gil-galad's eyes are nearly blue. Both scions of Finwë, one would be High King, were his line not forever dispossessed; one is High King, still young and uncertain in his step.

One is mithril, the other tarnished.

His courage fails. Rather than profess his love, he speaks of taxes. "A bold move, you made today."

"Do you think I did right?"

He catches the note of anxiety. Still, Gil-galad turns to him for approval, clings to him as family.

Gil-galad's eyes drop too quickly under his scrutiny - yet not so quickly that Celebrimbor fails to see the sentiment in their depths. Possibility overcomes proscription; what neither dares to say threatens to overwhelm.

Celebrimbor brushes his hand over Gil-galad's cheekbone, caressing the tip of his ear with his fingers. "I think you did right," he says thickly. "But your counsellors shall be furious."

"You…think?"

He suppresses a smile; clearly, the blood has deserted the brain. In the innocent reaction to his caress, he finds something sweet and yearning. The younger elf wears the look of one who wants to be kissed and Celebrimbor must summon all that remains of his will to pull away. "Artanáro."

Gil-galad stares at him in confusion.

"I am centuries older. I should know better."

"Do you think it is so wrong?"

"It is damnable in me. I knew you as a child."

"I am no longer a child."

"I betray your trust. I lead you into forbidden lust, and snatch away its sanction. We cannot bind, as lovers ought. You know you must have an heir, and I would not taint another fëa with my crimes and those of my kin." (5)

"The Laws-."

"To Angband with the Laws! The heart is not so reasonable, Artanáro. That is what you wish me to say, is it not?"

"The Laws are only part of it. Much more stands in the way than your guilt." Gil-galad stands, running his hand distractedly through his hair as he paces.

In asking Gil-galad to set aside all that is right and wise, Celebrimbor shifts from mentor to seductor, but he has now fallen too low. He can but wait on the other elf for rescue or ruin.

Finally, Gil-galad stands still. "Tyelpë-."

And Celebrimbor is reaching, pulling him down to kneel opposite him, silencing the cry with his mouth.

Lips explore, curious, brushing his collarbone, tracing the hollow of his breastbone. Celebrimbor flinches slightly as Gil-galad's tongue leaves a wet trail across his midriff. "Ticklish," he admits.

Gil-galad looks up at him with a grin and Celebrimbor at last feels resistance melt away; this is right.

His skin feels tight and constricted, wrapped in bands of shame. His very existence seems a perversion. Yet this, the taste of skin, the music of a moan, the flutter of a vein under his lips, this is right.

They find the bed in a tumble of discarded clothing and long, fierce pauses in which Celebrimbor thinks they might consume one another. They lie face-to-face, flesh losing the last of its shyness in the shadows of a single candle.

Long dark lashes beating against pale cheeks, Celebrimbor's thumb, his tongue caressing the underside of stiffened member, shudders as his throat contracts, callused pads kneading lean buttocks. Semen-coated fingers and oil; a murmur of protest.

 _"Artanáro, ányenen himyat."_ (6)

Yes, he trusts Celebrimbor. Easier now, though uncertain, awkward with innocence; when he comes his cry is relief.

In the way of first such experiences, it is not perfect, but not so unpleasant, Celebrimbor guesses, that it should discourage further ventures. 'Sooner, rather than later,' he thinks, as Gil-galad brings him to life again with the finest pressure of lips against the hollow above his collarbone.

The western sky glows indigo in the moment before dawn. The candle still burns and he can make out a hand curled under a cheek, a tapered ear poking between strands of hair.

He slips out of bed and sorts out his clothing.

He should not return.

He will be back.

* * *

(1) _hroa  
_ body (Q)

(2) _Urco  
_ Orc (Q)

(3) _fëa  
_ soul, spirit (Q)

(4) _Hîr_ _, híren  
_ Lord, my lord.

(5) 'We cannot bind, as lovers ought.'  
Bodily union accomplishes Elven marriage, but the name of Eru is also invoked when Elves bind to one another. I've gone with the theory that if they fail to mention Eru, they are not bound. Strictly speaking, this does not conflict with LACE, but I doubt Tolkien intended this interpretation. ( _Morgoth's Ring_ , 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar' p 212 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(6) _"Artanáro, ányenen himyat."  
_ "Artanáro, trust me." (Q). Lit. 'abide by me' ( _himya-_ , 'stick to, cleave to, abide by'; _á_ is part of the imperative construction; _nye_ , 'me', rendered as _nyenen_ in the instrumental case).


	6. Rhîw, SA 200

Elwandor will be in at any moment with his tea, signalling the start of his day and casting him into a whirlwind of noise and endless petitions for his attention. He stretches lazily and rolls over to perch on his elbow. He likes to watch Celebrimbor when his defences are down - to watch the flicker of his eyes, bright even in the unfocused glaze of sleep, as he walks through his dreamscape. He resists the urge to curl a stray lock of hair around his fingers - Celebrimbor is cross when waked too early. He lingers over sharp relief of bone and hollow shadow, line of lip and proud jaw; over defined biceps won in the forge and the long hands and graceful fingers of a craftsman. A burn - the trail of some molten metal - snakes across the back of one hand. Nearly healed, the burn ends just above the ring on his fourth finger. Gil-galad draws a sharp breath without thinking; the device shocks him no matter how often he sees it. To so many, it is a symbol of hate, but to Celebrimbor , it means so much more - it could be so much more.

'Of what do you dream?' he asks silently. Does he dream of the Undying Lands, of a time before his family fell into madness, before he took the lives of innocents? Or do dreams of Alqualondë haunt him? Yet, one cannot be separated from the other, as Finrod had learnt to his undoing. Perhaps Celebrimbor dreams not of days long ago, but of now. Gil-galad hopes that this is so.

* * *

"Ai! If you have something to say, I would rather you say it than take it out on my hair."

"I am sure I do not know what you mean," Elwandor says blandly, though Gil-galad can feel the ancient elf's disapproval in every tug of the comb.

Such disapproval would no doubt be shared by others, if they knew. He ticks them off in an effort to distract himself from the vicious ministrations to his hair: a good part of the council, especially the Gondolindrim, who regard Celebrimbor with suspicion and feel he already has too much the King's ear; his courtiers, or at least their mothers, who would not be pleased that the King is setting such a standard for his court; their Sindarin neighbours to the south, who would be alarmed at the thought of the _Golodh_ king in bed with the Fëanorians, literally or figuratively. (1)

His father had revered the Laws of the Eldar, as if they were the last constant to which he could cling in the madness of Beleriand in ruin. Arothir remained impractical to the last, unable to reconcile good intentions with the world as it presented itself. Gil-galad winces at the manner in which his father has become more theory than substance to him, a memory that persists but seems to belong to someone else.

Still, none could say that Arothir was not righteous - for his son to be less so dishonours him. A king is duty-bound to uphold the Laws, not prevaricate them. Moreover, Gil-galad knows that he is foolish to squander the good will of his people and guilty outright for fuelling division among them.

He turns away from the mirror. "I have changed my mind. I am going out."

Elwandor sighs and takes the formal robes back to the wardrobe, returning with clothing more appropriate for a winter day's walk. "Híren?"

Gil-galad looks at him distractedly, already unwinding the moorage in his mind. "You may go."

This is no season for sailing - even the most experienced mariners remain close to shore, lest they be caught in the gales that come without warning out of the north. A frigid rain begins to fall as he draws in sight of Mithlond, and he mutters a prayer of gratitude to Uinen that the wind chooses to drive him toward the harbour. Círdan waits on the beach, as if expecting him. Gil-galad supposes that he does expect him.

"You are foolish to take such chances, Ereinion. Have you no sense?" Círdan frowns at him as they hurry to tie up the boat and take down the sails in anticipation of the storm.

The stars will not open tonight; the clouds hang low and bring an early gloom. Gil-galad changes into dry clothes and comes to sit with Círdan in the kitchen, marvelling at the simplicity of fetching sugar from the sideboard when they realise they have forgotten it.

Círdan stirs his coffee and talks idly of the shipyard. Gil-galad stares into his own cup and tries to think how he might begin.

_"You are foolish to take such chances, Ereinion. Have you no sense?"_

Perhaps Círdan knows already.

The other elf drains his coffee and sets the cup firmly on the table.

"Well, then, speak, child."

He resists the urge to squirm under Círdan's penetrating eyes. "I have been...this is about Celebrimbor." He takes his mug to the stove and fills it again, as much to warm his still-frozen hands as to avoid looking at Círdan while he speaks. "I know the Laws, that we are not meant to act in lust. That such trespasses are not viewed lightly. I know that my first thought should be stewardship of my people. And yet -." He pauses, searching for words, but every excuse for his behaviour fails.

"You are hardly in need of my permission, Ereinion. You have others to whom you must answer, or at least justify yourself."

"And I cannot do as I like, that is what you are saying?"

"Would that it were so simple. You cannot change your heart."

He wants Círdan's blessing, but he is grateful no less for his understanding. Still, when he turns from the stove, he sees trouble in the other elf's eyes.

"Forget not that he is his father's son. What Eru has woven, we cannot escape."

He knows not to ask more; he will get no answers. Círdan's warning does not make for pleasant dreamscapes, however. He has no fear of treachery - Celebrimbor has proven his loyalty. His sleep is disturbed more by frustration. He cannot heal the guilt and shame, and those twin fires burn deeper within Celebrimbor than love.

He sends a messenger dove to Forlond to assure the council that the High King has not finally drowned himself, but feels no urgency to return. He dresses in old, worn-soft leggings, pours over the latest books on shipbuilding and enjoys Círdan's quiet company.

"I think Ossë has done with us," Círdan announces on the third night of the storm. "The gulls have returned."

He listens for the wind and finds that its fury has lessened. He will be able to return to Forlond tomorrow. Suddenly, he misses Celebrimbor fiercely.

Círdan shakes out the net he is mending and glances sideways at him. "I think you will find that none but your heart may say if you live by the Laws or no."

* * *

"The council has been in a dither since you left." Elrond, his arms full of scrolls, falls into step with him on the way to his chambers.

"Did you not receive word that I had arrived in Mithlond?" He cannot imagine that anything would gainsay Thilia's doves.

"We did. But I fear your determination to sail has provoked another discussion of your need to take a wife."

He rolls his eyes and opens the door to his study. "I do not suppose that any matters of substance were discussed in my absence?"

"Only if by 'discussed', you mean, 'quarrelled'," Elrond says, looking around with a grin as he arranges the scrolls on the desk.

He has enough time to visit the forge before supper. "Must I see to these petitions now?"

"No, they will wait." Elrond hesitates, clearly torn between his King's hurry and his need to speak. "Is it your friendship with Celebrimbor that prevents you from taking a wife?"

Caught off-guard, his silence is as revealing as outright admission.

"It is as I thought. By your leave?"

Gil-galad raises his hand in dismissal. He knows not what to make of Elrond's curiosity; he keeps his own counsel and is more inclined to think than speak. _Nenath dhínin siriar nûr_ , Tuor had once said of his son. Still waters run deep with his grandson, also. (2)

* * *

"I think your Elwandor does not care for me."

He rouses himself from a sleepy daze induced by the hand stroking his hair and the damp but warm nest of heavy bedclothes. "He has been with me since I was a child and served Círdan before you and I were born. He feels protective."

"I have noticed," Celebrimbor says dryly, "that he is not the only one who thinks you in need of protection."

Gil-galad is not sure of his meaning. In truth, he feels exposed; he is not used to disapproval, for he has never warranted it before now. They have been discreet and he trusts his chambermaid and valet, but still, rumours have begun to surface and he cannot fail to notice the hard looks cast at him by Elemmakil.

He turns over on his back, unconscious of Celebrimbor's questioning look.

He knows the source of the rumours, but Arphenion is crafty, not one to leave a trail behind him. He knows not how he might gain the upper hand, and he is too aware that inaction only reinforces the expectation that the son will prove as weak as the father.

Celebrimbor nips at his ear, sending a flood of feeling to his groin that tangles his mind and puts welcome end to thoughts destined to bring another sleepless night. He turns his head to kiss him and senses a swell of love in Celebrimbor: _he is wanted_ , not only desired, but wanted, as a body wants its limbs. 'Círdan is right,' he thinks hazily. Whatever Celebrimbor might believe, their hearts are bound one to the other. So, then, are their fates, for better or worse.

* * *

(1) _Golodh_ (S)  
'Noldorin' - this is not the polite version of the word

(2) _Nenath dhínin siriar nûr_ (S)  
'Still waters run deep'. _nen_ , 'water' + _-ath_ , collective plural suffix; _dínin_ , 'silent' (sing. _dínen_ ), lenited to _dhínin_ as an adjective following noun; _siriar_ , flow (3rd pers. pl _siria-_ ); _nûr_ , 'deep'


	7. Echuir, SA 380

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tehta for helpful suggestions.

"Much damage was done. The tavern owner is furious, and rightly so."

"And he will be made whole."

"By whom? These are not men of means."

"They have strong backs and no doubt can wield a broom, and at the moment, they are idling in gaol." Gil-galad sits forward. "Arminas, what is it that you want?"

"I think it is a mistake to trade with these folk. They are rough, long separated from their kin who sailed to Númenor. This is not the first trouble we have had from them."

"Is anyone else of a mind?"

"How badly do we need their trade?" Pengolodh asks.

"It depends on whether you wish to have fresh food at your table. We cannot get potatoes and greens from Harlindon," Luinel explains.

"Though I, for one, would happily see to the end of Arda without meeting another potato," Gil-galad says. This gets a smile from the members of the council. Near the end of the First Age, Morgoth's shadow had lengthened to the extent that they could make nothing but potatoes grow on Balar.

"I fear you do not understand the gravity of this matter," Arminas says.

"Do I not?"

Celebrimbor hides a grin; Arminas will not win this argument. Gil-galad reminds him a great deal of Maedhros. Cautious and thorough, Maedhros never made decisions until he felt he had all the information he needed. Once made, however, he did not waver.

The council is finally learning that its young king needs no regent. He only wishes that Gil-galad knew it.

"Arphenion, see to it that we have a company on duty on market days." The King looks over the council. "We will not make enemies of our neighbours."

* * *

He finds Gil-galad with Elrond, their dark heads bent together over their work, and chastises himself for a sudden stab of jealousy. He certainly would not wish to be in Elrond's chair at the moment - a few minutes of paperwork and he would be half-asleep. Moreover, he has often felt that Gil-galad needs companions of his own age.

Still, he wonders at their attraction to one another. In the past, he has lain with others out of loneliness, but he is habitually solitary. Gil-galad is a social elf; he seeks solitude only when strained. Celebrimbor might find his lover too needy, except that Gil-galad is careful to respect his need for distance.

"May I interrupt?"

"Please do," Gil-galad says, sitting back in his chair.

He leans down to kiss him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elrond picking up his quill hurriedly. "Shall we get some supper?"

"Is it that late already?"

"Indeed. I feared you would miss supper if I did not come to fetch you."

"Well, let us make haste, then."

The dining hall is nearly empty, Celebrimbor is glad to see. Perhaps they might be left in peace. He takes his accustomed place at the King's left. This had been the subject of many arguments in the past; Celebrimbor would not take the right-hand seat. "I am a smith, not one of your advisors." At last, Gil-galad had given up the argument, as one does after decades together - one learns to choose battles wisely.

"Pengolodh wishes to re-establish the guilds," Gil-galad says, stirring his soup.

"Oh?"

"That is what Elrond and I were working on. If we leave it up to the council or the guilds themselves, we will end up with endless in-fighting between various would-be leaders and their champions. I want to establish them as royal guilds, led by the right people - those with knowledge and the skill to lead."

"Pengolodh for the _Lambengolmor_." (1)

"Obviously. Elemmakil for the ironsmiths." They go on in this manner, finding that they agree on all but one. "You _will_ take the jewel-smiths?" (2)

"Enerdhil would be a more diplomatic choice."

"And I told you that I am not interested in diplomacy. This is about integrity of the guilds."

"Enerdhil is an excellent jewel-smith." (3)

"And he will make an excellent member of the guild." Gil-galad folds his napkin. "I have letters to answer. And yes," he grins, "I am avoiding further discussion."

* * *

"May I speak with you?"

He does not wish for company, but the smith - a one-time apprentice of his grandfather, though he cannot recall the elf's name - appears to be here for business, not a social call. He catches the eye of the serving girl and holds up two fingers.

"Is it true that they plan to re-establish the guilds?"

Celebrimbor hesitates, unsure that Gil-galad intends for this to be public knowledge just yet.

"No matter, you need not answer. But our people are worried."

He tries not to flinch at 'our people'; he does not know that he wants to be their champion. He had turned from that path, and though he knows they acted in obedience of their lords, he cannot entirely absolve them of guilt, any more than he can excuse his own part in Alqualondë. On the other hand, they have no one else and nowhere else to go, and someone must speak for them.

"We fear it shall be yet another excuse to exclude us."

"The King will not let that happen."

"The King should tread more carefully."

Gil-galad has little patience for quarrels between the Houses, but Celebrimbor begins to see that the guilds could easily become a source of great tension. The Gondolindrim and Finrod's people might refuse to share their work with the followers of Fëanor and his sons. The latter would make up a disproportionate part of the smiths' guilds, sparking jealousy from those rejected. Nothing but the King's will might hold it all together, and though the Noldor are fond of Gil-galad, Celebrimbor wonders if this time, he might have chosen the wrong battle.

The next afternoon, he makes certain to catch Gil-galad in between meetings. "If my King would grant this humble subject an audience after supper," he says.

Gil-galad laughs. "Are you telling me that you feel neglected of late?"

"No, that you are too busy of late. I thought we might take a ride this evening."

"After supper, then."

"I shall hold you to it."

When they set out that evening, the sky is still tinged with pink while Arien lingers in the far West. It will be dark ere they return, but Echuir is a calm season. The night will be clear and lit well enough for elven eyes.

Gil-galad brushes off the need for guards. "If there is danger within a few leagues of the palace, then your Captain has much to answer for," he tells them.

Celebrimbor remembers when no ruler might have ventured out without a full escort, and certainly not at night. The threat of Morgoth's creatures only ranked slightly ahead of the threat of one's own kin. "It is good to live at peace again," he says.

"Indeed. It must have been something like this in Aman, to have no enemies or threats."

"It is more peaceful, now, than it was then, for Melkor had been unchained some time already when I was born." He stops, realising that he has lapsed into Quenya.

"I _do_ remember my lessons," Gil-galad laughs. "Though, admittedly, not well."

They amble across a treeless heath, untroubled by the light wind from the east. At one time, they had established a regular habit of these rides, and the horses are evidently sorry that they have lost that habit, for they want to run, and snort at the elves' admonishments that it is far too dark for anything faster than a trot.

"You have not forgot that Eönwë pressed you to sail West?"

Celebrimbor glances sideways. "Is that a rhetorical question or a suggestion?"

"At the moment, it might be either," Gil-galad says dryly. "I merely say this to point out that there is no ban on your return, as there is on others such as Galadriel and Arphenion. If the Valar do not hold you responsible, what right have others to do so? What right have you to do so?"

"Oh, I _will_ be held to account for what I have done - I am allowed to return because I am not considered an agitator. However, that is irrelevant here in Ennor - the Eldar _do_ hold me responsible, if only because no one else remains to carry the blame." He holds up his hand. "It matters not whether that is fair or right. It simply is. And if I take the lead in your guild - for I know that is where you are going with this - it will be said-."

"Many things will be said. I have no intention of listening to them."

"It will be said that you favour me."

"As if that is not known!"

"It will be said that you favour the Fëanorians."

"Because I have chosen the finest jewel-smith in Arda to lead the guild?"

"Some of our kindred are not so charitable."

"Charity? This is a matter of State.

"I envy Círdan," Gil-galad continues, tugging at his braid in frustration. "The Sindar simply go about their business, without all this nonsense. I cannot favour one House over another. I know you think me naïve, but the moment I act to appease one, I shall lose the loyalty of the others. I would choose you even if you did not share my bed, Tyelpë."

"Indeed, then, it is a great inconvenience that I do."

"Inconvenience?"

"You no longer need my guidance, Artanáro. I suppose that I am as much to blame as are you - I have held you back, I think, for my own selfish reasons." He should know better than to continue, but he must know the truth. "I was there when you needed someone you could trust - I fear that your feelings for me are a matter of circumstance, if you will."

"Circumstance?" Gil-galad slows his horse.

"That you want what I represent: a link to your past. Constancy."

"I see." The air has turned chilly, and not only due to a sudden change of wind out of the north.

* * *

Gil-galad slips into the forge so silently - and unexpectedly, all things considered - that Celebrimbor gapes at him. He rarely speaks during these occasional flights from sleeplessness - and Celebrimbor appreciates his reluctance to disturb him at work. Tonight, however, Celebrimbor wishes he would say something.

He banks the fire and hangs up his leather apron. He follows Gil-galad to his chambers, though they have not slept together these six days. He understands that this is a call for truce. Gil-galad sits on the edge of the bed and starts to unwind his braid; he is utterly avoiding discussion. His appearance in the forge does not signify that he is ready to talk. He simply wants Celebrimbor here.

He sits down next to the other elf and takes the comb from his hand, taking comfort, for a moment, in the simple intimacy of mutual grooming.

"You are still angry."

"I am less angry than hurt." Gil-galad turns to him and takes the comb back. He unties the thong that secures Celebrimbor's hair and runs his fingers through the loose braid to unravel it. "I do not know what I have done to make you question my feelings for you."

"It is nothing you have done! I only question whether your feelings are what you think they are." He swallows. "I fear that I am a father figure to you."

Gil-galad lets go of his hair, holding the comb in mid-air. "That is a particularly disturbing thought."

"No less for me."

He sighs as Gil-galad slips off the bed. His back is turned and his mind closed, but the rigid set of his shoulders betrays him. Some words are better unsaid, but it is too late to stop his tongue.

Gil-galad turns to face him. "You are determined to find pain in joy. Is there no end to the misery you must suffer in payment for your sins? But no, for you take upon yourself all the crimes of your House," he answers his own question. "Did it never occur to you that I loved you from the time I first saw you through the eyes of an adult? Not as a mentor, not as my cousin and certainly _not_ as a father."

"Why? Answer me that, Artanáro. For I truly believe that you do not know."

"To explain what binds one heart to another? No - I am no master of poetry." He comes to stand inches from Celebrimbor. "You made me feel-."

_Trust._

Celebrimbor is not sure if his lover's _ósanwë_ is an order or an admission. (4)

"I have few that I can, and only one whom I desire," Gil-galad continues. "But I will not share my heart with an elf who has so little regard for himself."

"And you? You have not needed a mentor for some time, and yet you still demand this from me. Can you not see why I wonder at your feelings for me?"

Gil-galad looks at him, uncomprehending.

"You bear yourself as a king. Perhaps you should begin to think of yourself as one."

"I cannot help but question everything I do," Gil-galad says impatiently.

"You would be a fool if you did not. Indeed, I have seen my share of foolish lords who never questioned their decisions. Nonetheless, their people followed them, as they now follow you. It is your _right_ to expect that." He pauses. "I have doubted your judgement in the matter of the guilds, as I should not have done," he says softly. "Sometimes, I forget that I am your subject."

"Tyelpë, I would not force it upon you, but truly, I think your fears shall come to naught. Whatever the Noldor feel about you and your House, they know your talent. The things you create...you are extraordinary." He is so near, Celebrimbor can hear his heartbeat. "Extraordinary," he repeats, his mouth closing over the skin of his throat.

Celebrimbor shudders, pain and pleasure mingling in the tender bruising of his throat. He cannot resist the lure of beauty and in a flash, he knows how it felt for his grandsire to hold the Silmarilli. 'This is what it is to covet, to put your fëa itself into a thing of wonder.' The very thought makes him pause and question the purity of his feelings for his lover, but he cannot think just now and he certainly cannot resist.

No, he has not resistance to the hands that push him to lie on the bed or to the fingers that free him from his leggings, and his mouth can only form sounds, not even language, in response to the lips that slide, tight and demanding, over his member.

When they make love, he is able to experience an untainted fëa.

Gil-galad licks his swollen lips and lies down next to him. "I love you when you are like this."

"How?"

"Mine."

"Yours?" Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow.

"When I know that I have you, entirely."

_You let me feel what it is to be innocent again._

Gil-galad's eyes widen a little at this.

They are both so wary; even after all these years, they still guard their minds from one another. Yet, never has he known Gil-galad to hold him at a distance in their lovemaking. It is a gift, freely given.

Perhaps, as Gil-galad has said, the reason one heart binds to another is not something they can fathom. His mind rebels at this uncertainty; he has spent yéni learning that one metal will strengthen another and that one gem will cleave cleanly where another will not. The heart, however, has no well-ordered properties designed by Aulë. It simply is.

* * *

(1) _Lambengolmor_ \- lit. 'loremasters of tongues' (Q)  
Pengolodh was the leader of the Lambengolmor in Middle-earth. (ref _The War of the Jewels_ , 'Quendi and Eldar' p 396 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(2) 'Elemmakil for the ironsmiths'  
Tolkien doesn't give us much information about Elemmakil - we don't even know to which house he belonged. I've made him an ironsmith for convenience - and, dare I say, plot development.

(3) Enerdhil  
According to one version, Enerdhil is the jewel-smith of Gondolin who made the Elessar. (ref _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' pp 261-2 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(4) _ósanwë_ \- lit. 'interchange of thought'; 'mind speech' (Q)  
(ref _Vinyar Tengwar_ , No 39, July 1998, p 33)


	8. Laer, SA 550

He surfaces from his dreamscape with the desperation of one drowning. He lifts his head from the pillow to listen; nothing disturbs the night. What woke him, he cannot say, but the dread follows him from sleep.

He knows that it is not nearly morning and that he will sleep no more tonight. Stirring now, he thinks that he should draft some letters or read reports, but Celebrimbor murmurs something unintelligible and curls an arm over his torso, effectively trapping him. He does not mind, however - the touch soothes him.

When Elwandor finally brings his tea, he tries to move Celebrimbor's arm, but his lover tightens his grip and nuzzles his neck.

"Let Arphenion wait." Celebrimbor slides his hand under the covers. "I think you will find me much more entertaining."

Gil-galad rolls over and kisses him, regret heavy in his groin. "You might have thought of this last night when you came to bed."

"I was sooty and dirty, then."

"And you are not, now?"

"I no longer care."

"I might." He leans over to kiss Celebrimbor again and is very tempted to be late to his morning appointments. Reluctantly, he pulls away and gets out of bed before he can rethink the matter.

"Did you sleep at all, last night?"

He fastens his dressing gown and looks around, surprised. "Enough," he says truthfully. Fortunately, he does not seem to need much sleep.

Celebrimbor starts to speak, but the chambermaid's knock interrupts them. Gil-galad hastily drinks his tea and follows the maid into the bath. If he is sleeping more poorly than usual, it signifies only that his mind is too busy to rest, and nothing more.

* * *

"And you base such claims on what? The word of some Avar who talks to trees?"

"It is only a feeling. But yes, the Laegrim were nervous when Círdan's folk last met them." Elemmakil glares at Arphenion.

Gil-galad turns away from the window. "Elrond, what are your thoughts?"

"I concur with Elemmakil. I cannot explain it, but it is as if a shadow has fallen."

"First the ramblings of tree-dwellers and now the wisdom of youth."

"And yet they are right, Arphenion. You sense it, too," Celebrimbor says.

Gil-galad knows that the captain is only making trouble; he has already heard his report in their private meeting. Arphenion's feigned scepticism serves his own aims. He takes his seat. "Let us withhold further discussion - I think we are in agreement that something fell is lurking, but we know nothing more." He looks at each member of the council in turn before going on. "For now, this matter remains behind these doors." It will serve nothing to alarm the general populace. No doubt, many feel the disturbance, but he does not want rumours to fuel unease among the Noldor.

He adjourns the meeting and retires to his study. He makes a note to send Elrond into Eriador to see what he can learn from the Mannish settlements. If he can find time to make the trip, he very much wants to speak with Círdan. And Celeborn's representative waits on a response to his lord's letter. Gil-galad realises that he has no time for dinner. He had sealed the letter to Celeborn late last night, but the morning has brought new tidings, and he will have to compose an addendum.

He begins to wish he were a shipwright in Mithlond. He presses his fingers to his temples, prompting a memory of childhood from the unhappy days after Finrod's departure.

_"Ereinion! Naneth has been looking for you everywhere." Finduilas turned up the lamp, chasing away the darkest shadows in his bedchamber. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"_

_"My fëa is heavy."_

_"Silly, your fëa cannot be heavy. You mean to say that your heart is heavy."_

_"That is not what I meant." He crossed his arms stubbornly._

_Finduilas knelt on the floor beside him. "What does it feel like, to have a heavy fëa?"_

_He gave a great sigh and hid his face in the folds of her gown. He could not explain; he did not yet have the words._

_"You have big thoughts for such a little elf," she said, smoothing strands of his untidy braid away from his face. "You should not worry so."_

His sister smelled of lavender and wore violets in her hair. Lavender still relieves tension in his head. And his fëa is still heavy.

* * *

From his study, he makes for the practice yards. He had been surprised and a little wary when Arphenion had suggested this daily exercise, but he has come to look forward to it - there is nothing like physical combat with a foe to work out the frustrations of the day.

The two elves square off, each on his guard lest the other strike first. In all things, he is cautious by nature, reluctant to take the offensive until he is certain of his opponent's intent. Arphenion has forced him to be more bold; in the beginning of their sessions, he had been so overmatched that he found it best to strike before the captain could develop a strategy.

He feints, ducks the counter thrust and steps to the right, looking for an opening. In the past season, Arphenion has taken to less conventional manoeuvres - less artful and more cunning, and Gil-galad has thought this a sign of his improvement. It occurs to him now that Arphenion's technique has changed out of necessity.

"You have been training me for war."

"Perhaps it is _not_ my intent to see you killed the first time you ride into battle, Tauren."

He misses his footing and finds himself looking down the blade of Arphenion's sword. He smacks it away, irritated at his inattention. He has learnt enough for the day.

He looks for Celebrimbor in the larger forge, built to house the work of the Mírdain. When Pengolodh had disclosed his wish to revive the Lambengolmor, the notion had come to him that the guilds might be exactly what Celebrimbor needed. The Mírdain are more than a fraternity of elite jewel-smiths - they also instruct young elves in their art. Celebrimbor would never take an apprentice - he has attention for nothing but his craft while at work - but he is a good teacher, when called upon to demonstrate a technique or explain the principles of metallurgy. For this, he remains on these shores - to give back to those who suffered from his family's misdeeds - and he speaks with pride of his students.

Gil-galad slips in unobtrusively, he hopes, coming straight from the exercise yard and not yet dressed in formal robes that would draw attention. Celebrimbor is just finishing a lecture on annealing that utterly goes over his head. When he is finished, the elf sitting on the floor near Gil-galad's feet jumps up and nearly crashes into him, her eyes widening in recognition of the High King. She performs a nervous bow and murmurs something that sounds like an apology before she skitters out, actually _twitching_ with horror.

"She will make a fine smith, I think. She cannot put two words together unless one is the name of a metal," Celebrimbor says. He sobers. "I knew her father in Aman. He was a sword-smith of great skill."

"Was?"

"He lost an arm at the Havens."

Gil-galad can guess he had not been one of those defending the Havens. From his vantage point near the door, he can see the elf-maid greeting her father with the enthusiasm of a puppy. Their simple happiness contrasts sharply with the cloud of uncertain darkness that has haunted him this day.

" _The watchfires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps._ " (1)

"I am not going to supper with you if you are going to quote Pengolodh at me."

He barely hears Celebrimbor's words. "I had nightmarish dreams as a child."

"I know."

"I had almost forgotten."

"And now you are having them again."

"I ceased to have the dreams on Balar. That is why they sent me there, was it not?"

Celebrimbor's hand falls on his shoulder. "Artanáro, they grieved for you. Do not think they did not. It is a terrible thing to be separated from a child. Yet, they feared for you more." Celebrimbor is silent a moment. " _I_ fear for you."

He frowns at concern he instinctively resents - he is no longer a child. "Are you finished here?"

The outbuildings are deserted, as craftspeople and servants have left off their work for the day. The cobblestones retain Anor's warmth; her setting rays paint the west-facing walls in gold. Night approaches, but on slow feet.

"There is a reason you are having them again," Celebrimbor says presently. "I know not why, or how, but what brought them upon you then is tied to this evil that is falling."

Gil-galad suppresses a shudder. Living dream is just that to elves; the terrors that troubled him as a child were not spawn of overactive imagination.

They are not yet late for supper, he sees as they enter the palace. In the gallery above them, the lords and ladies of court flirt over aperitifs in their formal robes and gowns of blues, whites and silver. They make a pretty tableau, like a day of sunshine amid clouds. He and Celebrimbor part ways before his chambers - Celebrimbor still keeps his own rooms, serving the thin pretence that he is not sleeping in the High King's bed.

Gil-galad is just getting out of the bath when Celebrimbor walks in, clad in nothing but his leggings.

"Is your bath still warm? My chambermaid has taken a dislike to me, I think - she must have carried up blocks from the ice house to fill mine."

"More likely, she has no clue when or if you will be getting dressed for supper and has given up guessing when you shall need a hot bath. Indeed, I suspect that you would be tinkering with something even now had I not come to fetch you."

Celebrimbor raises his eyebrows. "I am not the only one who has been distracted, of late."

He ignores this; Celebrimbor's half-naked presence is much easier to contemplate than his complaint. With his towel, he pulls Celebrimbor into an embrace. "You do not really need a bath."

"If you have your way, we shall both need baths. And we shall miss supper."

"It would be a shame to miss supper. I hear that the minstrels from Harlindon plan to debut Galadriel's very latest composition."

Celebrimbor groans, though whether he does so because his leggings look suddenly very tight or at the threat of Galadriel's music, Gil-galad cannot say. He runs his tongue over Celebrimbor's ear and into the hollow of his throat, hands working to rid him of his leggings, and, pleased at the resulting gasps, he continues along the sensitive line of the jugular.

"Artanáro-."

He lowers his lips to Celebrimbor's neck, humming in answer, and receives a groan and a curse in response.

"A bath would be much quicker than being licked head to toe. And I am growing impatient."

He releases Celebrimbor just enough to allow him to step out of his leggings, and they fall together on the bed, tussling for position. He has always had the advantage of longer legs, but they are almost evenly matched, now, in upper body strength. When had that happened? He will have to thank Arphenion for the regular exercise, he thinks with a smirk.

"It is not polite to laugh at one who is about to bed you. It could have untoward effects."

"Please! Spare me the reference to 'wilting pride'." He shivers as Celebrimbor closes his mouth around his nipple. "No laughter, I promise."

Darkness has crept across the room, leaving them in a pool of candlelight beyond its reach. He watches Celebrimbor's shadow, thrown across the wall, and sees in the play of flame the elf beneath the wrappings, its rise and fall never varying in its rhythm or force, as a hammer might fall upon steel; fluid grace and taut lines that he will feel later in bruised hips. He melds into the flame, for the moment, lets it consume him, so that when he comes, he nearly plunges into the inferno beyond - so nearly, he twists away in panic.

He winces at the hard set of Celebrimbor's mouth, the look of reproach - or perhaps, disappointment - but the searing heat, the spirit of fire in Celebrimbor's mind, had terrified him beyond reason.

"Tyelpë." Celebrimbor's expression fails to soften, and Gil-galad tries again, this time with his heart.

 _Len melon._ (2)

He waits for a response that does not come. Hurt, he pulls away and slips out of bed. Afraid of what his face might reveal, he keeps his back turned as he cleans up at the washstand and dresses. He hears the other elf rustling about, gathering his discarded leggings and taking his turn at the washstand. He averts his eyes as he passes Celebrimbor on his way to the door.

"Artanáro." Celebrimbor reaches for his arm.

He sidesteps the attempt. "I have work to do."

He has petitions to answer, a task generally requiring little thought, ideal for his distracted attention. A scholar in Harlindon wants permission to study at the King's Library; a mother wants a place for her son at court. The first, he will simply grant; the second will go to Luinel to be decided. Celebrimbor tells him to leave such mundanelies to his advisors, but he does not like to cede control. It unnerves him to think that a key decision might be made without his knowledge.

His eye catches the precise and unembellished dwarven handwriting of a still-unanswered letter from Thek, the current King of Hadhodrond. (3)

_You will no doubt be hearing complaints from your sculptors of the price of jade, but there is no help for it, as its getting has become more perilous of late. We have long had minor troubles with orcs in the Ered Mithrin, mostly theft and mischief; our stone delvers are far too numerous and quick with a sword for them to do much harm. In recent times, however, we have twice suffered the loss of life and goods in attacks upon our caravans by larger and better-organised bands of orcs._

The letter confirms Arphenion's belief that a chieftain has taken control of several petty factions. Still, is it a transient shift in power or is something more sinister at work?

A rap on the door startles him. He sees that his quill has left an enormous inkblot on the parchment he had been about to sign, and throws down the quill in disgust. "Yes?"

Elrond edges into the room, balancing a tray. "I thought you might want supper."

Gil-galad pushes papers aside to make room for the food. "This is hardly among your duties, but I am grateful and very hungry." He pours two glasses from the flagon of wine. "So why are you about so late tonight?"

"I spent the evening with a friend of old acquaintance. And you? Surely, paperwork can wait until the morrow."

"Oh, it will wait, and multiply while it does." He drains his glass and pours another. "Actually, I am glad you are here, as I wished to discuss the matter put before the council."

He has healthy respect for Elrond's instincts: he might be the youngest of his advisors, but he had fought in the War of Wrath, as no elf on the council had; he might be half-elven, but in his ancestry also runs the blood of a Maia.

Elrond rubs his chin in thought. "I am hesitant to do more than repeat what I said in council. Something stirs, that is certain."

"Some stroke of Morgoth that has lain dormant? A balrog or worm, perhaps - or something we have not yet seen?"

"No. Of that, I am sure. This is no stranger to us."

"That is what Celebrimbor believes." He takes another great swallow of wine, heedless of the potency he is starting to feel. He looks at Elrond over the rim of the glass and considers whether to say more with regard to Celebrimbor. He has discussed private matters with Elrond before now - they have talked of their childhoods and families - but never have they discussed matters of the heart. Indeed, he knows little of Elrond's affairs - he has seen him in the company of various ladies of the court, but he cannot think of one who seems to have his favour. Moreover, Elrond has not chosen to impart such information, and Gil-galad is reluctant to reveal intimacies when none have been offered. Elrond might rightly find such talk inappropriate for the relationship of King and advisor.

He sighs and swirls the wine in his glass, lonesomeness prickling behind his eyes. The plate of bread and cheese sits mostly untouched, and he realises a bit too late that his present mood has not benefited from a liquid supper.

"Gil-galad?"

"I am sorry, Elrond. I am not the best company tonight." He sits forward and sets the glass on his desk. "You are right - these petitions will wait." He lights a candle before blowing out the lamp, and they make their way toward the door. With one hand on the handle, he stops.

"I want peace," he says. "Our people have suffered enough from war and grief. I do not want this darkness."

"No. But still, it comes."

He is too uneasy to rest, or maybe overtired, and hovers on the edge of a dreamscape filled with shadow. He twitches awake when Celebrimbor comes in from the forge. Though he lies still, the tension in his limbs would betray his wakefulness even to one who does not know him so well. Celebrimbor spoons around him and kisses him just above the ear.

"Len melon," he says softly. "Sleep, now."

And he does.

* * *

(1) " _The watchfires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps._ "  
(ref _The Silmarillion_ , 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin' p 176 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(2) _Len melon  
_ 'I love you.' _len_ , 'you' in the accusative case, is derived from attested _le_ ('you' in the nominative case) and the pattern of attested accusative pronouns. _melon_ , 'I love', first pers sing of _mela-_. (ref _Vinyar Tengwar_ , No 45, Nov 2003 p 34 and David Salo, _A Gateway to Sindarin_ , pub University of Utah Press)

(3) Thek (Old Norse)  
We are missing the names of most of the dwarven kings of the Longbeards between Durin I, who died near the end of the First Age, and Durin VI, slain by the balrog in TA 1980. I've used the name of a dwarf from the _Poetic Edda_ , the source of most of Tolkien's dwarf names.


	9. Rhîw, SA 739

Two dozen years have not lessened the man's fascination with the elf-king, Celebrimbor observes. True, Gil-galad is fair, but others are accounted more fair. The intensity of his eyes, however, has held more than a few in thrall. The Calaquendi have a distance in their eyes that cools the light of the Two Trees; the flame is watered in age and memory. Gil-galad's eyes, in contrast, pierce with their brightness. Advisors shift uncomfortably under his gaze, their manipulations transparent before him. Those without guile, however, feel as if they have the whole of the King's attention.

Small wonder, then, that Aldarion returns to Forlond, though his voyages displease his father. Celebrimbor might be jealous of this friendship - of Gil-galad's easy, informal manner with Aldarion and their constant companionship, if he did not know his lover so well. Gil-galad fears loss too much to invest his heart in a mortal.

He hurries up the stairs to the gallery and touches Gil-galad on the shoulder.

"Tyel-Celebrimbor," Gil-galad amends, but cannot hide the radiance in his eyes. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"Indeed, Tauren." He turns to the man and nods in greeting. "Hîr Aldarion."

 _You have been away too long,_ Gil-galad tells him silently. He turns to lead the way toward the dining hall. "Let us meet after supper. I am eager to discuss your stay at Hadhodrond."

_And what do you suggest I wear to this 'meeting', Tauren?_

Gil-galad's answering grin needs no words of thought or speech: nothing at all.

* * *

"You mentioned that Tar Elendil intends to pass the sceptre to your father in the coming year," Gil-galad says to Aldarion. Turning toward Celebrimbor, he adds, "It has been the custom, since the days of Vardamir, for kings of Númenor to abdicate rather than rule until death."

"How interesting." He tastes his soup and finds it a bit salty, no doubt a concession to the less refined senses of their Mannish guests. His mind wanders to a technique described to him by a dwarven stone-cutter with whom he had spent a good deal of time at Hadhodrond. He has not the tools for such a thing, but perhaps-.

"Celebrimbor?"

He realises that Aldarion has spoken to him. "My apologies. I fear I am a bit weary from my journey."

Gil-galad raises an eyebrow at him: _Not too weary, I hope._ To Aldarion, he says, "You do not expect much change under your father's rule?"

"I think he is unlikely to veer from my grandfather's policies."

The discussion drifts to the design of ships; at least he shall not be expected to comment on that subject, but Varda, would this meal never end?

* * *

As a small child, he would pick up everything: ancient bone-thin vases; delicate sculptures; sparkling gems in his father's workshop. "Tyelpë, do not touch!" his mother would say, exasperated as she pried another ornament from his tiny hands. With his father, it was different - Curufin understood the need to feel rather than see. Art, after all, is the making of illusion - the rendering of a likeness that tricks the eye into belief.

He feels, now: the sharp rise of a collarbone; the smoothness of a pectoral muscle; the softness of slightly parted lips. He feels the languid press of a lover well used and satisfied, the flutter of a pulse returning to normal, the heat of pleasantly sore muscles. He traces the juncture of skin, where it had seemed strange a few moments ago that he should find a seam between their bodies.

Yet, that separation is there, has always been there. His mere presence is wanted, and some would call this love, but he wonders if his lover will ever want to know the demons of fire within, not only those of his shameful past, but also those of his birthright.

Gil-galad does not so much watch as stare at him, as if he might suddenly disappear. "You were gone longer than I expected."

"It was a more profitable visit than we foresaw." He reaches for a silk bag on the bedside table. "I have brought you a gift."

Gil-galad takes the bag and draws out the clasp within. Even in the dim light, the metal sparkles. "But this is mithril, Tyelpë. How...wherever did you get such a quantity?"

"It has been found in Celebdil. The lode is quite extensive, the dwarves believe." (1)

"It is exquisite." He turns the piece over, examining the delicate design of stars and twining serpents. "Celebdil, you say? Then Durin's crowning must have been an especially joyous occasion for the dwarves."

"Indeed. The mithril is a gift from the new king - I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty of fashioning it into something more useful than a shiny ingot."

"You know I do not."

"It comes with an invitation - Durin wishes to forge a partnership with the Elves."

Gil-galad returns the clasp to its silk bag and sets it aside. "Oh? We are already in constant correspondence. I think our relationship with Hadhodrond is quite solid. Perhaps the new king is not aware of this."

"This is _Durin_ , Artanáro. The dwarves believe him to be Durin the First reborn - they call him 'Durin the Deathless'. I have met him, and I believe it.

"In any event, he has much more than correspondence between kings in mind." Celebrimbor pauses. "He has already exchanged letters with Galadriel on the subject, and she has proposed that the elves build a settlement near Hadhodrond."

"Has she?" Gil-galad says evenly.

"You must forgive him - dwarves are quite straightforward in their dealings with one another. And Galadriel can be most obscure."

"Devious, you mean. She might have consulted me before she took it upon herself to represent the Elves before another king." He runs his hand through his hair in irritation. "Her involvement aside, our alliances have never been so important."

"And the _Anfangrim_ have been our most valiant and reliable friends among the Dwarves." (2)

"Yes, there is that, too. Were we to extend our presence into Eriador, we should make that land less welcome to the shadow. I hate it, though, that I am giving Galadriel exactly what she wants."

* * *

Talk drifts into silence as the patrons turn as one to stare at the newcomers. Under his hood, Celebrimbor watches them surreptitiously; Elemmakil and his companions can have no good purpose at a tavern frequented by the people of Fëanor. Moreover, if their movements are sound, their eyes betray the sense-muddling effects of alcohol.

Elemmakil, oblivious to the stares, marches across the tavern to a table and hauls up a short, wiry elf by the front of his tunic. "It is over two weeks since you promised me delivery, yet I am still without my knives."

"I have told you, híren, that I cannot repair your knives without like material. That alloy is made only at Hadhodrond. I cannot hurry dwarves."

"My company leaves for the Ered Luin in four days. Again, and again, you have made excuses, but then, I should have expected such faithlessness from your kind."

The knife-maker's companion, a giant of an elf who works in the quarries, rumbles to his feet. "I think you are in the wrong tavern, _híren_."

Elemmakil clenches his fists. "Indeed, it is not my habit to drink where rats hide."

Celebrimbor sighs and leaves his corner. With a nod at the tavern owner, he takes hold of Elemmakil and leaves Aland to handle the meaty stone-delver.

"Remember who you are," he says in a low voice. "Remember _where_ you are."

Elemmakil twists around, almost spitting with contempt. "Aye, I remember. And I remember who _you_ are, even if the King has forgotten."

"I think it best that you leave my tavern, now. I run a quiet house. I have no need for rabble-rousers here to make trouble," Aland says.

Celebrimbor claps his hand over Elemmakil's mouth to silence his retort and walks him toward the door. His companions scowl but follow without further encouragement.

"Go," he advises, when they reach the street. "Do not be a fool, Elemmakil. I will see to it that your knives - and your money - are returned to you. You can hardly lead your company from the gaol."

"Why should I trust your word, Curufinion? Bad enough, it is, that we are forced to live among Kinslayers, but it is worse that the King lies with their lord. We have not all forgotten that we were betrayed at _Lond Sirion_ , nor that the traitor was never found." (3)

Celebrimbor had not imagined that some would still think him the source of Maedhros' information. "My loyalties are not your concern. I answer only to the High King - do not imagine that it is your place to question me."

"You do not deny it, then."

He pushes Elemmakil toward his companions. "Take him home. I suggest that he be more cautious with drink in the future, lest his tongue run too freely."

Weary, more at heart than from the lateness of the hour, he is dismayed to find that another elf, likewise cloaked and hidden from prying eyes, has joined him at his table.

"Arphenion assured me that the drink served here was not fit even for men, but I do not think he did it justice. How can you drink that poison?"

"Why are you here, Galadriel?"

"I wished to speak with you."

"And you could not come to Minas Silivren?"

"I wanted to speak privately."

"If you want to speak outside the High King's hearing, I am probably not your best choice of confidant."

"I have nothing to hide from Gil-galad. Rather, I want you to approach him with this. If it comes from me, it will seem an attempt to usurp his position."

"I cannot think why."

"I am sure I do not know why Gil-galad is so suspicious of me. I have never given him anything but my support."

'But not necessarily your acknowledgement,' he thinks. Less than real intent to undermine the High King, her sense of entitlement is what rankles.

"It is as if she measures all that I do against what she would do in my place, and too often, I come up wanting," Gil-galad had once complained.

"Will you hear me before you judge?" Galadriel asks.

Celebrimbor nods. "Go on."

"As you know, I have been in correspondence with King Durin." (4)

"Does it not seem to you that matters between kings should be carried out between kings?"

"I am certain that he broached the matter with you during your visit, and that you have made it known to Gil-galad," she continues, blithely ignoring his question. "I have put much thought into this, and I believe you should be a part of it."

"I am not sure that I understand you."

"Look around, Celebrimbor. These elves look to you as their lord. If you lead them to the new city, they will follow you. They are the finest smiths among the Noldor and would profit most from exchange of knowledge with the dwarves."

"And how do you profit, Galadriel?"

"If I 'profit', as you say, it is only in the course of duty."

"Of course. I very much doubt, however, that you act without a role foreseen for yourself."

"That is what I wish for you to discuss with Gil-galad." For a moment, Galadriel seems unsure of herself. "Someone must manage the city, and you have little patience for such things."

"And what of Celeborn's lordship of Harlindon?"

"He is hardly needed - the Sindar manage their day to day affairs well enough, and would follow Círdan in matters of consequence."

'Moreover, they see you as Celeborn's consort,' Celebrimbor thinks. "Well, I will tell the King of your wishes, though I am sure that he has anticipated you and already made his decision. As for me, I have no interest in the settlement. My place is here, for reasons that should be obvious."

"Your _órë_ may be here, but is your _enda_? I have known you since the Years of the Trees, and your craft has always been your first love. _Nai sanuval tan, Tyelperinquar_ ," she says, and drifts out of the tavern. (5, 6)

_Think about that, Celebrimbor._

He would reject her idea without consideration, but his mind fairly reels at the possibilities.

He could immerse himself in his craft with like-minded dwarves and elves, learn what he can of Aulë's children and perhaps become the artist he is meant to become. Not since he worked on the building of Minas Silivren has he felt that he was creating something of lasting value, of meaning to someone other than himself and his customer. Before he made the Silmarilli, his grandfather had given wondrous things to the Noldor: lamps in which the light never died; the Tengwar now in common use. He wants to give elves reason to once again speak of his House with awe rather than anger.

And yes, he wants to escape the political vortex of Forlond. He tires of making small talk over supper with lords of consequence; he has never had the spleen for the scheming and intrigue so relished by his father. And yet, he does not wish to leave Gil-galad; he had felt his absence acutely during nights in the tunnels of Hadhodrond. Perhaps his enda still belongs to his craft, but his fëa belongs to Artanáro.

He expects Gil-galad to have turned in for the night by the time he reaches the palace. Instead, he frowns at rumpled sheets and goes looking for their recent occupant.

Gil-galad sits bent over a heavy volume in his study, his hair gathered into a long braid coming loose from his habit of pulling at it. The confident and unworried monarch seen by his subjects is gone; he looks tense and drained.

"You cannot go on like this."

"No." Gil-galad plucks a page from a stack on his desk. "What do you make of this?"

He skims over the document, a petition for redress from a householder complaining that his neighbour plays the trumpet at all hours of the night. All attempts to resolve the dispute have been met with insult and indifference.

"Is this not a matter for the magistrates?"

"It is, but that is not the point. Everything in that stack pertains to similar complaints. Why so many?"

"You think it is the shadow."

"Morgoth made great use of dissention between us. Whatever has now arisen, it learned much of the Destroyer."

'And the wounds that fester are old ones,' Celebrimbor thinks, recognising a lieutenant of Maedhros as the complainant. Perhaps drink had been less responsible for Elemmakil's behaviour than he thought. He takes a seat. "Galadriel is here in Forlond. She approached me at the tavern."

"Oh?"

"She wants to have rule of the new settlement."

"No," Gil-galad says flatly. "I will not allow it."

"I am not sure that you have a choice."

"Perhaps it is time to test her supposed deference." He worries at his braid, pulling out more strands in his frustration. "And yet, no one is more suited to it."

* * *

Pengolodh's study is hardly more than an alcove deep in the forest of shelves and armaria in the King's Library. The room seems even smaller with the disorganisation that prevails - parchment and books and scrolls stacked on every surface and in every corner.

"Sit down, sit down." Pengolodh moves a pile of books to free a chair. Small of stature, his movements are as quick as his mind. "You are just the elf I wished to see."

"Oh?"

He fishes a scrap of parchment from a stack of books and hands it to Celebrimbor, who eyes the wobbling stack with distrust. "Does that look to you like the writing of the Noegyth Nibin?"

He reaches over to steady the stack and then examines the paper. This is evidently a copy, as the parchment is new. "I think so - these tails are characteristic of their runes. How did you come by this?"

"It was copied from the walls of a tunnel in the Ered Luin."

"I did not know they ever resided there."

"No - that is why this find intrigues me." Pengolodh slips the copy into a book - Celebrimbor cannot see the title, but he suspects that it has nothing to do with Noegyth Nibin and that Pengolodh will struggle to lay hands upon the copy in another week. "Now, what I truly wished to discuss is the new settlement that has so many tongues wagging. I have asked the King to give me leave, for I wish to expand my knowledge of Dwarven tongues and customs. Herdir Elrond is more than capable of running the King's Library."

"I am glad for you, and I do not see that Gil-galad would refuse your request, save that he will miss your counsel."

"So he has told me."

"Then, if you are not asking for my support, what is it that you want of me?"

"Ah, I ask nothing of you. I only suggest that you consider the same for yourself."

"Though it tempts me, my place is here."

"Perhaps. Yet no Elf knows Dwarves as you do - your knowledge of Khuzdûl far surpasses my own, and you understand them as if they are kin."

"You know it is not possible."

"One makes sacrifices, Celebrimbor, for one's beloved - even if one is High King. Tell me, at the least, that you will ask him to consider it."

"I will," he says weakly. He knows that he will do no such thing.

* * *

The council, for once, is in agreement and endorses the proposed settlement without persuasion. Already, the lords look to their advantage in the expansion into Eriador: Arphenion proposes a garrison at Tharbad to protect the trade routes - an outpost he has undoubtedly long coveted. Others see an opportunity to revise the tax code. Aldarion talks of establishing a permanent port and Númenórean presence in Eriador.

Celebrimbor means to speak to Enerdhil about the mírdain who wish to emigrate, but the task slips by him until Enerdhil approaches him directly.

"I have heard that you intend to take the Guild to Eriador, but you have said nothing to us. Many of the smiths and apprentices await your decision, for it will influence their own."

Celebrimbor pulls the silver he is working from its wash. "I have said nothing because I have no plan to do so, but I hope I do not keep others from going." He sets aside the tongs and faces Enerdhil. "But from whom did you hear that I intend to quit Forlond?"

"Forgive me, híren, but I made the error of believing common gossip."

Common gossip, Enerdhil names it, but Celebrimbor knows its source. Perhaps Galadriel spreads the lie to manipulate him or to encourage others to join the settlement, but she is more likely to simply obscure the truth. Either she presumes - or worse, foresees - that he will lose this battle with his conscience.

He immerses himself in his work, always his refuge from unwished-for thoughts. He leaves the forge late; though the eastern sky is still dark, Eärendil has begun his voyage westward.

He undresses in the dark and slides carefully into bed, hoping not to disturb Gil-galad.

"It is nearly dawn."

"I did not mean to wake you."

"You did not."

He feels a chill, as if a storm has come up suddenly out of the west.

"I heard today that some of the Sindar who lived under my father's rule have decided to join the new settlement," Gil-galad says quietly.

Celebrimbor knows the deception in that soft voice; he knows how Gil-galad uses it so effectively to mask feeling behind outward calm.

He is furious, as angry as Celebrimbor has ever known him to be.

"It seems that your lordship of the city has persuaded them, and I am lost as to when this was proposed."

"Galadriel suggested it and I refused. Yet, I cannot say it did not appeal to me."

"Then it is true."

"You have asked me to sit on the King's Council and to advise and support you, and these things have I done without complaint. Yet I do so only to please you - I am an artisan, Artanáro. You see the new city as a move in a chess match, but to me, it is an opportunity to learn and improve my craft."

"This has nothing to do with your craft and everything to do with your penchant for self-flagellation."

"Perhaps it is both. Still, if I want to make amends, is that not a noble cause?"

"And you cannot do that here?"

"I accomplish nothing as one of your counsellors. My hope lies in my hands - I would bleed my life into my creations."

"It is as much my life as yours that you bleed."

He winces at the obvious manipulation. "Lovers separate for long periods quite often. You take this as final, yet it is not. I will come back, Artanáro."

"Forgive me if I do not see that."

Not until Gil-galad has risen and left to meet with Aldarion does sleep find him. When he wakes in the early afternoon, Gil-galad is moving about the room, dressed in tunic and leggings.

"I am leaving with the Númerrámar for Mithlond," he says, without turning around from the satchel he is fastening.

Celebrimbor blinks the glaze of sleep from his eyes. "When do you plan to return?"

"I do not know. Elrond will manage things in my absence."

"We need to speak-."

Gil-galad holds up his hand. "I am in no mood to speak of anything." He takes his cloak and satchel and is gone.

Celebrimbor seethes - he cannot argue with the eight hundred and some-odd year-old ghost of a child pining for his family. He is cautious with his temper - it has never served his family well - and not until he reaches the privacy of his forge does he dare to let that temper loose in a string of obscenities and flying tools.

He very nearly brains Elrond with a lathe. "What is it?"

"You did not really think he would take this well?"

"Why?" he rages. "I am not going to walk into Sauron's lair or march off to battle with some fool Adan."

"And yet, this is what he fears," Elrond says calmly. "Those who let him go do not return for him."

He winces. If Gil-galad still feels the pain of loss, Elrond must feel it more so. "Yes, I suppose you would know."

Elrond leans against the wall, his expression as inscrutable as ever. "My experience has been quite unlike that of anyone else. As has his - and yours. Sometimes, we do not recover from our past.

"He will save you, if you will let him. My heart warns me that you will not elsewhere find peace."

* * *

Rhîw passes swiftly and those planning to remove to the new settlement make their last arrangements. Leave-taking is planned for the last week in echuir. Celebrimbor makes his own preparations, but uncertainty hangs over him. Officially, he needs Gil-galad's permission, and in any case, he cannot leave with so much anger between them. With the date of departure drawing nearer, however, he must have it settled, one way or the other. Resigned that he will have to go to Mithlond himself, he arranges for passage on a fishing boat returning to its home. Back in his rooms, he packs lightly - regardless of the outcome, he will not be gone long.

"Bring the ginger root here, please," he says, when his slovenly chambermaid at last returns from the kitchens. Yet, the hand that holds the seasickness remedy is the hand of no maid.

"You were not really going to sail for Mithlond?" He has colour in his face, as if he has at last had some rest, and much of the tightness is gone from his eyes.

"You look well."

Gil-galad raises his eyebrows. "Surely, one argument has not made us such strangers that we must resort to inanities." He wraps his arms warmly around Celebrimbor and kisses him with passion. "I do not know how I shall manage without you."

"I wish you understood why I must do this."

"I think I do," Gil-galad says, his voice tinged with sadness. "Yet, I wish you would not."

'Círdan,' Celebrimbor thinks. Círdan can make Gil-galad see sense as no one else can do. 'He has been a good father to you, Artanáro, perhaps better than your own might have been.'

"I will be but four weeks' ride from Forlond," he says aloud. "And I intend to make that journey as often as I can."

Gil-galad frowns.

"What?"

"Nothing. I was thinking of something Círdan said...but it is nothing."

Uneasily, he wonders if Círdan's words resemble Elrond's warning. "If you ask me to stay, I will."

Gil-galad swallows audibly and refuses to meet his eyes. "It is better if you do not give me a choice."

His eyes moisten. "My heart-."

"I know," Gil-galad says softly. "I know."

* * *

(1) Celebdil  
As near as I can figure, the lodes of mithril were initially found under Celebdil (Silvertine). In _LOTR_ , Gandalf tells us _"The lodes lead away north_ toward _Caradhras, and down to darkness."_ (emphasis mine) The name of the mountain certainly implies that this is where the silver was found, though we would have to assume that it originally had another name. (ref _FOTR_ , Book Two, IV p 309 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(2) _Anfangrim  
_ 'Longbeards' (class pl of _anfang_ ) - the kindred of Durin and thus of Gimli and the dwarves of _The Hobbit_. The dwarves of Nogrod who sacked Doriath were, in contrast, apparently Firebeards, though Christopher Tolkien notes that the text is somewhat confused and that his father intended to revise it. ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'Of Dwarves and Men' p 301 and pp 322-323, notes 24 and 25, pub Houghton Mifflin; see also _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p 246 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(3) _Lond Sirion  
_ 'Havens of Sirion'. In the prequel to this story, Maedhros was aided by information from Arphenion in the third Kinslaying. Obviously, I've entirely fabricated this 'betrayal'.

(4) I have been in correspondence with King Durin.  
I've gone first with the few details on the Second Age given in _LOTR_ , and then with _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn: Amroth and Nimrodel' and lastly with 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn: Concerning Galadriel and Celeborn'. The founding of Eregion does not occur until SA 750, according to the 'Tale of Years', but in _Unfinished Tales_ , Tolkien states that Galadriel and Celeborn went to Eregion around SA 700 and that the building of Ost-in-Edhil was begun in SA 750. For the initial emigration, I've selected a date in between the two in order to coincide with Aldarion's voyage from SA 735-739. Considering that it took decades for the elves to begin building permanent dwellings during the First Age, it seems perfectly plausible it would take ten years to draw up plans for Ost-in-Edhil. We do know that Durin was king at some point in this period because he is named on the West Door.

(5) _órë_ (Q); _enda_ (Q)  
 _órë_ : 'heart, inner mind' ( _LOTR_ , Appendix E p 1096 pub Houghton Mifflin, further defined in _Vinyar Tengwar_ Number 41 p 11, July 2000)  
 _enda_ : 'centre, heart' ( _Vinyar Tengwar_ Number 39, p 32, July 1998)  
The difference between the two words is subtle - the former refers to emotions, the latter to the soul.

(6) _Nai sanuval tan, Tyelperinquar_ (Q)  
'Think about that, Celebrimbor.' (lit. 'May it be that you will think about it.') _sana-_ is a theoretical verb corresponding to _sanar_ , 'mind', literally meaning 'thinking'. _tan_ is the presumable dative construction of _ta_ , 'that, it'. _Tyelperinquar_ is Celebrimbor's proper Quenya name.


	10. Penninor, SA 881

The final day of the year dawns with false cheer; the sky is cloudless but the fire in the grate cannot quite banish the deep chill. Likewise, the familiar seal on the letter delivered with breakfast falls short of its promise. Affectionate but short, the letter fails to address his request. When he is finished with the meal, he reseals the letter and puts it in the drawer of his secretary. He will answer Celebrimbor later. He cannot trust his quill just now.

Elrond already awaits him in his study. He has sorted the petitions and correspondence, delegated or answered the lesser matters, and left what remains in order of most pressing. He gives report on the items Gil-galad will not see and takes his leave.

Distantly, he can hear the laughter of housemaids, giddy with anticipation of the night's celebration. Resolutely, he turns his attention to the charter in front of him. He might not share the excitement, but he has no wish to spend the evening bent over his work. Celebrimbor would tell him that if he cannot finish with the day's work, then the requestors will wait on it - "You are not at their beck and call," he would remind him - but without such discipline, he would soon be wading in papers. Though he has reluctantly shifted some of the burden to Elrond, his expanding influence comes at the cost of ever more demands on his time.

When he leaves his study at mid-morning, the stack bearing his seal, ready for dispatch, has grown appreciably. He will be late for Arphenion's report, but deliberately so. The captain is a stickler for punctuality, and he is one elf who bears reminder that the king is _not_ at his beck and call.

He pauses by an east-facing window on his way to Arphenion's offices. Cold air creeps around the lead glazing, but the windows are only shuttered during the most violent of storms - no Elf could stay long in a place without light of sun and stars. He scratches away the frost still clinging to the glass and squints into the sunlight. Trade wagons, light carriages and solitary travellers on horseback dot the road from Mithlond, but none of the lords riding abroad wear the distinctive red and black.

"You were expecting another guest?" Unlooked for, Círdan had come to Forlond yestereve with the _Hirilondë_ , Aldarion's great ship, "to see the fireworks," he said.

Aldarion had been more blunt. "We have come to cheer you, lest you dampen the festivities with your moping."

"He has never stayed away so long," he says to Círdan, turning away from the window.

"Why, by the Valar, do you not go to Eregion?"

He grimaces; they both know the reason. He can argue that he can hardly leave Forlond for so long, but the truth lies in pride. He is the loser in a contest with Celebrimbor's craft, and Círdan thankfully does not mention that he had long ago warned him of this. "I have a meeting to attend," he says abruptly, and walks away before his foster-father's concern overwhelms him.

Disquieting quiet has settled over Eriador in the past _ennin_ , and Arphenion's report is accordingly short and unremarkable. The Shadow has withdrawn; Gil-galad knows this from his untroubled dreams, from the menace that seems muted. Yet, its distance brings him no comfort - it will return, with strength it is even now building. (1)

"We have still to find any trace of Gellin," Arphenion says, finishing his report.

Acting as a spy, the elf had given word of his wellbeing to the Sindar in Belfalas. Some four weeks later, Gellin had left a cryptic message with Aldarion at a Mannish port further east. He had heard strange tales of fire and brimstone from men in the region, and planned to follow his instincts toward the source. A round of the sun has passed without further communication. Gil-galad has already informed Gellin's wife of his presumed death, and to his mind, the matter is finished.

"What he found might be important," Arphenion argues.

"And yet we know not where he went, and any elf sent to track him might easily come to the same end, for his questions would be a warning in the wrong hands. We have neither enemies nor allies beyond Hithaeglir."

"Then perhaps it is time we ventured farther afield."

Gil-galad studies the slate board tracking troop assignments. They have warriors in Tharbad and, under Galadriel's command, in Ost-in-Edhil. Other warriors occupy watches in the heights of the Ered Luin or hold checkpoints along the East Road. They are already stretched thin. "We do not have enough Elves. But," he muses, "there are also Men. I will see if Aldarion's people can discover anything." (2, 3)

Arphenion snorts. "You put too much trust in Men."

"I put my trust in those who have earned it."

"Ah, yes. You have said that." With a few graceful steps, Arphenion closes in behind him, so near that he can feel hot breath on the tip of his ear. "Trust can be betrayed."

Gil-galad falters at the edge of the trap, but catches himself. Arphenion knows nothing - he is toying with him. "If you are bored, Captain, I can easily arrange for you to pass a few dozen rounds of the sun in direct supervision of the garrison at Tharbad. Elsewise, it is better if you do not speak of what you do not know," he snaps.

"As you wish," comes the unruffled answer, and loath as Gil-galad might be to admit it, Arphenion succeeds in planting the seeds of doubt.

* * *

A servant offers cups of hot cider to take the chill off the air. Were Celebrimbor here, he would complain of some minor fault in the silver serving tray, one of his own crafting, and Gil-galad would catch his sleeve to keep him from chasing after the serving girl to banish the offending tray. He closes his eyes, imagining the conversation.

_"I assure you no one will notice."_

_"But I will."_

_"Then I must keep you from looking," he would say, and the tray would be forgotten in a kiss stolen in the shadows of the gallery. Celebrimbor would taste of apples and nutmeg and spirits - a promise of more to be consumed later._

"Tauren?"

His eyes fly open. His expression must reveal something of his thoughts, for Moebeth gives him a queer look.

"The joust is about to begin in the practice yards."

"Thank you." He falls into step with the guard. "Is it true that you will be participating this year?" he asks.

"It is, Tauren."

"Then I wish you luck, though I fear it may cost me my chambermaid," he says, grinning at the pink glow that spreads over Moebeth's cheeks. The prize for the winner of the tournament is a spacious house in Forlond, ideal for young elves starting a family. The Crown had come into its possession when the inhabitants sailed for Valinor leaving no heirs, and such a reward fits well within his official endorsement of marriage and the begetting of children as natural according to the Laws of the Eldar. His own hypocrisy - particularly in the subtle discouragement of bonds between _ellyn_ \- does not escape him, but neither does its necessity. In one matter, at least, he and Arphenion are of the same mind: war will come, and they will need warriors. (4)

He takes his seat in the middle of the field and beckons Aldarion to the place at his right. "I was surprised to find that you had been in Mithlond - you have tarried long in Ennor, and your last letter from Vinyalondë indicated that you would return to Númenor before leaf-fall."

"I wished to consult with Círdan on the building of flat-bottomed boats. We think the Gwathló can be made navigable as far as Tharbad," Aldarion says, his face alight with enthusiasm for the project. "I fear my stay has been lengthened by the need to establish a permanent presence in Vinyalondë. We have had much trouble with the native folk of the region - now that my father has forbidden the harvest of wood in Númenor to the Uinendili, we are forced to seek wood elsewhere, and the Gwathuirim resent it. They do much damage to the port in our absence."

"It would be better if there were no enmity between your peoples, for evil finds fertile ground in anger," Gil-galad warns. On the field, a combatant yields in defeat, and Gil-galad pauses to join the crowd in applause for the victor of the match. As two more hopefuls take the field, he turns again to Aldarion. "My heart tells me that other reasons have kept you here so long, mellon."

The man's fair face grows sombre. "You know of my father's opposition, and Erendis is of the same mind. Vinyalondë has become a haven for me, as much as the sea herself."

Though he sympathises with his friend, the state of relations between Aldarion and Tar-Meneldur - and the possible consequence for the alliance between Númenor and Lindon - worry him greatly. He had been pleased at Aldarion's marriage, as he had long feared that the man's infatuation with him would sour their friendship. Alas, it seems that such happiness as had attended the marriage has proved unlasting. "Hiril Erendis is hardly at fault for missing her husband, and it seems to me a great ill to be separated from a daughter who is yet so small," he says gently.

"My father wished me to marry, and I have done so," Aldarion says, a hint of petulance in his voice.

"You still lack an heir," Gil-galad reminds him.

"As do you."

Gil-galad considers his answer carefully. True, he might fall from his horse, or drown at sea or be slain in battle. Aldarion, however, _will_ die, of age if not accident. He is loath to speak of his friend's mortality, however. "I turned from that path a long time ago," he says at last. "I was young, and valued my happiness over duty."

"You sound as if you regret it."

"No." The answer comes without thought under Aldarion's searching look, but it begs another question. 'Would I do the same now?' he wonders.

"Perhaps I can ease matters somewhat with your father," he says presently. "Ere you take ship for your return to Númenor, I will have a letter for him." He does not know if Meneldur holds him to blame for his son's wanderlust, but if he is wise, then surely he must see that Númenor, too, is at risk should the Shadow continue to grow.

By the end of the tournament, the air is thick with the scent of roast lamb. Fireworks follow the banquet, and at last, the musicians begin to play in the great hall and the dancing and jests begin. Catching sight of Luinel, who stands near the doorway counting heads, Gil-galad takes her hand and pulls her into the ring of dancers. "Come, hirilen, the servants know their duties and you are entitled to enjoy yourself."

The roundelay increases in speed, with first the men of Aldarion's crew bowing out, and then the less nimble among the elves, laughing as they fall out of step. Gil-galad and Luinel are among the next group to step out. Elrond lasts another round, but soon, only the elves of Gondolin, where Idril had popularised the dance, remain. When Elemmakil and Thilia have outlasted everyone, their feet moving in a blur, the musicians take a needed break. Gil-galad threads his way through the crowd toward Elrond and the lady who has become his rather frequent escort at such events.

If he is to believe court gossip, their betrothal is a near certainty. In spite of the lady's connections, Gil-galad finds her a surprising choice. She seems too serious, as if her sense of humour is pinched. As he nears the couple, Elrond bows to the lady and comes to his side.

"I did not mean to take you from more agreeable company."

Elrond rolls his eyes. "Trust me, you did not."

"Indeed! Many would have you betrothed to her already."

"The court is saying this?"

"I hope the lady does not labour under the same delusion."

"I cannot have made my intentions clearer. She is rather...determined."

They make their way toward the jesters, who begin a rather clever farce about the 'King of Many Names', complete with a harried-looking Pengolodh and a long scroll on which he attempts to mark down all the names by which Gil-galad has been called. "They come from Eregion, from the Players' Guild," someone says.

By the middle of the night, the crowd is flagging; the most resolute of dancers will continue until dawn, but many of the feast-goers begin to drift away. Gil-galad feels the weariness of the long day, but the prospect of his empty rooms fills him with dread. "Come up to my chambers," he says to Elrond. "I have a special wine and need suitable company for its proper enjoyment."

While Elrond coaxes a warm blaze from the embers in the hearth of the sitting room, he fetches the wine from his bedchamber. "This is the true Dorwinion," he says, and sets out glasses purloined from the great hall. "The wine we served tonight is made by men of the region. They learnt to make it from the Tatyarin Avari who still live there. Arphenion somehow got hold of a dozen bottles when he was last in Tharbad, and I took two from him in a sparring match." (5)

Elrond raises an eyebrow. "May I ask what you wagered in return?"

"Let us say that losing was quite unthinkable." He sips his wine and waits to speak until Elrond sits back in his chair, his formal posture melting into ease.

"So, if this lady is not to your liking, tell me, then, who is."

Elrond sits up. "Gil-galad...Tauren," he begins, clearly unsure of his footing. "I would rather not answer that."

"You are a hard nut to crack. Why such secrecy?"

"In matters of the heart, we often profit more by ignorance than knowledge. Much awkwardness is thus avoided." His poise regained, Elrond looks him in the eye. "Do you not find it so?"

Once again, he has failed to pierce the veil. He has a sudden urge to kiss Elrond, to see the peredhel's composure fall away, to see if his lips can bring the thrum of desire to his skin he feels when he kisses Celebrimbor.

That such a thought has even come into his head disturbs him. Easily, he can blame Celebrimbor for his long absence, but adulterous desire is uncommon among Elves, or so the loremasters would have him believe. Certainly, many of the Noldor have endured far longer separations: wives who remained in Aman while their husbands went into exile; bonded mates parted by the death of one.

Hastily, he moves to more neutral ground. "What thoughts have you on Aldarion? I worry that his absences will set him forever against father and wife."

"She seems a hard lady, easily displeased. The sea is a less confounding mistress."

"Think you that his voyages might alter the succession?"

"You know Aldarion better than I do, and we have only his word on which to judge his father. Yet, I do not think Tar Meneldur would act so rashly - he seems to be of a conservative nature, and such an upset would be a grave matter." Elrond sips his wine, frowning in thought. "Aldarion is a man of great determination and foresight, yet he lacks both in the matter of Erendis."

"Perhaps he accepts what is inevitable."

"And yet, is trust not faith that continues without proof?" Elrond sets his glass on the table and refuses the offer of more. He stands as if to leave. "May I be candid?"

Gil-galad cringes inwardly; he has had enough solicitude for one day. "No," he says softly. "I would rather you were not."

After a moment's hesitation, Elrond bows to him. "Then I bid you good night. By your leave?"

When Elrond has gone, he tips the last of the bottle into his glass. It is a strong wine, meant to be savoured slowly over a meal, and small help he has had in its dispatch. Such solace as he seeks is no more likely to be found in spirits than it is to be found at sea, or in lust or in his work. Nor is it to be found in suspicion that reflects his own state of mind rather than any fault of Celebrimbor.

He drains his glass and weaves his way toward bed. Elwandor will click his tongue at such laxity, but he leaves his robes in a heap on the floor and crawls into bed, eager to find the blessed peace of sleep.

_Would I do the same now?_

His circlet has become so much a part of him that he hardly recognises the young elf who took up rule with such reluctance. That boy had wanted a lover who would fill him, and he could never have found that in a bond made out of duty.

Yet, perhaps he has not changed so, for his heart still yearns for that lover. If he questions his choice, he does so out of disappointment. His throat closes convulsively at the anger bubbling beneath the surface; he has only himself to blame.

_"Two wishes of his heart collide - you may grant one or the other, but not both," Círdan had said, when he raged against Celebrimbor's request to go to Eregion._

_"I should let him go, you think."_

_"Sometimes, what we want most would be better if it were not, and yet to withhold it would be like using a pebble to dam a river."_

When has he ever had a choice? What was not chosen for him has come to him like Círdan's river, already a matter of fate. He tosses in frustration and tries to still his thoughts; he will be no better for a sleepless night. At last, Estë takes pity on him, putting the tumult in his mind to rest.

In living dream, he walks with Celebrimbor. Some nights, the subject matter is the sort that leaves a stain of evidence on his sheets, but more often, they talk. They never speak of daily matters - the fëa, apparently, could care less about his irritations with the King's Council or about Celebrimbor's designs for the House of the Mírdain. Their talks are philosophical in nature; he wakes with a memory of having discussed something of great profundity, but nothing concrete remains of it. Perhaps such things are beyond the waking mind's understanding.

Mostly, however, he is simply aware of Celebrimbor's presence, a warmth at his side that aches like a missing limb when he awakens alone.

This is such a wakening. He throws back the bedclothes and goes to the window, the yearning in his heart so wrenching, he feels as if it will break apart. Tilion is waxing, and he can see leagues into the distance. The road out of the east is still.

* * *

(1) _ennin  
_ Valian year (144 years)

(2) under Galadriel's command  
This is somewhat symbolic - in practice, Celeborn would probably lead all warriors in Eregion, as he has the experience. In name, however, elves sent by the High King of the Noldor would be assigned to Galadriel. I do think Tolkien truly intended Galadriel to be at least capable of leading troops and acting as a warrior. In his attempt to rehabilitate her, he wrote, _'...she with Celeborn fought heroically in defence of Alqualondë against the assault of the Noldor'_. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p 243 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) Perhaps even more persuasive is her role in the War of the Ring: _'Celeborn came forth and led the host of Lórien over Anduin in many boats. They took Dol Guldur, and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits...'_ ( _LOTR_ , 'Appendix B' p 1069 pub Houghton Mifflin) Tolkien revised the sequence of events in the fall of Eregion several times, but at least one version has Celeborn and Galadriel _together_ fending off Sauron and leading the survivors through Moria, and that is the version I've chosen to use for this story.

(3) checkpoints along the East Road  
The East-West Road at the time of the War of the Ring ran between Mithlond and Imladris. However, the original road must have led to Moria, since Imladris did not exist, and probably passed through Tharbad and Ost-in-Edhil at the time of this story. It would also make sense for it to have originally gone as far west as Forlond.

(4) _ellyn  
_ male elves (pl of _ellon_ )

(5) Tatyarin Avari who still live there  
In _The Hobbit_ , Tolkien writes, _'The wine, and other goods, were brought from far away, from their kinsfolk in the South, or from the vineyards of Men in distant lands.'_ ( _The Hobbit_ , 'Barrels Out of Bond' p 176 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) _'Kinsfolk in the South'_ might refer to Lórien, though one has the impression that there was little communication between the two woodland realms. (Moreover, unlike Mirkwood, Lórien seems to have been quite insular.) Considering that the Sea of Helcar seems to have become, after the drowning of Beleriand, the Sea of Rhûn, it's possible that some of the Avari who never started the journey remained in the region. (Karen Wynn Fonstad, _The Atlas of Middle Earth_ , 'The First Age' pp 4-5 pub Houghton Mifflin)


	11. Eregion, SA 1150

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names of several minor characters and place names appearing in this chapter, including Forug, Siar, Har and Galadriel's residence, Galadhadobel, are entirely invented.

"Híren, have you forgotten that you are expected at Galadhadobel?"

"At aduial." He glances out the window to see the blaze of Anor as she descends toward Valinor and curses.

Erestor purses his lips. "And you have a visitor - a Man - awaiting you in your sitting room."

"Why do I have a visitor when I am obviously late?"

"He was very insistent."

"Is it not your duty to ensure that I am not late for my appointments and that I do not have visitors assailing me at their convenience?"

Erestor rolls his eyes. "You are somewhat...disagreeable when you are disturbed at your work."

This, Celebrimbor supposes, is the result one should expect from an attempt to turn an uninspired apprentice into a secretary. "I do not suppose you had the wits to get his name and business?"

"He said that his name is not known to you."

"Excellent. I am expected at a very important ceremony," he glances out the window again, " _now_ , I have a strange man in my private quarters and you cannot even explain his presence." Galadriel is like as not to begin without him, which would be both tactically and personally unpleasant. With this in mind, he throws open the door to his sitting room and opens his mouth to dismiss the man awaiting him.

"Hîr Celebrimbor!" The man's accent grates like a rasp against stone. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance."

"And you are?"

"Forgive me. I am no one of any importance - Forug, son of Hoshu, they call me in my own land - but I come on errand of my teacher."

The man's coarse features, accent and mealy smile bring to mind the Easterlings Celebrimbor had seen in Beleriand. He is instantly wary; not all such men had proved evil, but many had. Efforts to probe his mind encounter resistance, however, and despite his haste, Celebrimbor is intrigued.

"Then, be quick about it, for I have other matters to which I must attend."

"As I say, I come in the service of my teacher, a great _ithron_ , who in turn learnt his arts from the one you name Aulë. He wishes to bestow gifts of knowledge upon Elves and Men, and is particularly eager to make your acquaintance, for he has heard much of your great talent." (1)

"Is Curumo the ithron of whom you speak?"

"I do not know that name. My teacher calls himself Annatar. He would call on you, if you would receive him."

He does not recognise the name, but he had spent relatively little time under Aulë's tutorship, and not all his Maiar would have been devoted to teaching.

"Naturally, I will receive him." More than intrigued now, he has a dozen questions he would ask, but he does not want this man in his sitting room any longer than necessary. He is clean enough - indeed, in dress at least, he resembles a Númenórean lord - but his presence is somehow odious. "Now, if you will excuse me, I am very late. Erestor will see you out."

* * *

"Taur Ereinion Gil-galad." Celebrimbor bows and kisses the hand extended to him. "Welcome to Eregion. We have long desired your presence." _You do not know how I have desired it._

"I have long delayed this journey. Perhaps too long." Gil-galad looks at him meaningfully, but Celebrimbor cannot decipher him.

Galadriel and Celeborn step forward to extend their formal greetings. The ceremony complete, the crowd disperses and the chief artisans from the various guilds follow their lords into Galadhadobel for the feast made in the High King's honour.

In the salon, young elves eager to be introduced wait on the fringes of more powerful guild masters and lords looking to secure the High King's favour. He is radiant tonight - such affairs are his element. The youngsters will leave feeling that he has bestowed a special greeting upon them, and the lords will be certain that their status has risen in his eyes. Celebrimbor is hard-pressed to catch Gil-galad alone, and not until after the banquet does he find an opportunity to speak to him. "I trust your journey has not wearied you too much?"

"We arrived quite early in the day - we might have pressed on last night, but I wished to send notice of our arrival. What delayed you so long?"

"I had the oddest visitor," he commences, but Gil-galad has turned to greet Pengolodh with genuine delight.

" _Taur fael nín!_ How I have missed your midnight haunts in the library." (2)

"As I have missed you. Elrond has a peculiar habit of sleeping at night - he is never about when I want something obscure."

"Speaking of obscure, I have new histories that might interest you."

He steps away; he will have Gil-galad's full attention soon enough. He sips his wine and shakes his head in feigned regret at elf-maids who try to persuade him to dance. At last, his fixed expression of good humour feels too heavy for his face. He slips out to the balcony and breathes the silence with relief. He hopes that Gil-galad will not want to remain much longer.

Almost on cue, Elwandor appears in the doorway. "My lord bids me tell you that he has gone up to his rooms."

Nonplussed, he follows Elwandor to the guest wing. Gil-galad gestures to the wine on the table before him and dismisses his valet. Celebrimbor takes a glass but remains standing. "I assumed that you would stay at _Bar-i-Mírdain_ \- you said nothing of other arrangements." (3)

"Your apartments are not suitable. It would be too blatant."

"I do not think it was a great secret that I shared your bed at Minas Silivren."

Gil-galad sighs. "Things have changed. This is just the sort of thing we are trying to discourage."

"You are serious," Celebrimbor says, after a searching moment. "That must be easy to enforce, with the High King and several of his chief advisors inclined in another direction."

"I do not _enforce_ anything, Tyelpë," Gil-galad protests.

"No, you need not. The people believe that the Valar smile upon you, that you have their guidance. What you proclaim as right and just, they believe is right and just by the Laws of the Eldar."

"I did not come all this way to argue policy with you."

Celebrimbor swallows. In days past, they had been of the same mind. "No. Forgive me."

_I am trying to._

He releases his breath slowly. He is caught unawares, so much had he anticipated this visit.

"I am not...averse to your remaining here tonight," Gil-galad says softly.

He grasps the line as his feet submerge in quicksand. The footing outside the pit is hardly more firm, however. He used to know the way around it.

* * *

"Har is anxious that you do not see his father's absence at tonight's feast as a slight. King Siar was eager to make your acquaintance, but his health will not permit it." Celebrimbor butters his bread and glances to the side, daring the Oliphaunt in the room to come closer. "He is not likely to see the snow fall again, I fear."

Gil-galad stirs his tea. "Durin ruled a long time - Siar is his youngest son, no? The others preceded him in death." (4)

"He is. And you should know that the dwarves say that Durin has 'returned to his long sleep'. The sages among them think he will not be long in rising, however."

"Oh?"

"Make of it what you will," Celebrimbor shrugs. "Perhaps it is wishful thinking, for Durin's rule was profitable for them. Yet, they also believe Durin will return in time of need."

"The Shadow. Durin spoke of it in his last letter. Dwarves, at least, remain vigilant, if Men do not."

"The elves in Tharbad say they have not seen the men of Númenor these four dozen years. How came this?"

"Since Aldarion's death," Gil-galad says, hesitating as if the subject is still tender, "his daughter will not respond to my letters. What news I have comes from the Lord of Andúnië - he thinks the Queen is quite mad. Vinyalondë is lost, Arphenion says - in ruins."

Celebrimbor nods. "So I have heard." Such matters hardly constitute his preferred breakfast conversation, but at least the subject is unlikely to cause disagreement, and it fills the silence between them.

* * *

Bar-i-Mírdain occupies four square furlongs on a hill near the centre of the city, arranged in a great square around a spacious courtyard. Many of the work rooms are only semi-enclosed, to allow as much light as possible, and the Mírdain have built their great forges in plain air, in outcroppings of stone that nearly blend into the courtyard's gardens.

"We are fortunate to have dry weather here under the eaves of the mountains, and save a spell or two in Rhîw, it is warm enough to be out of doors. Even the snow, when it comes, does not remain long." Celebrimbor leads the way into the repository, nodding at the two guards who stand duty. "Here, we keep the jewels the Mírdain make of their own will - those that are not designed for a buyer."

Gil-galad picks up a necklace of amethyst and gold. "Your work?"

Celebrimbor nods. "Unfortunately, my mate is overly fond of mithril and wears little jewellery."

Gil-galad smiles at this. "You have amassed great wealth here. I see I do not levy enough tax on the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."

"We have no complaint of the tax code, Tauren." They shall be right again, Celebrimbor thinks with relief - they only need time to accustom themselves to one another.

As they leave the repository, a dwarf hails them from the entrance to the east wing.

"Glad, I am that I have found you! The couriers from my father want your letter, and that secretary of yours cannot locate it."

"Taur Gil-galad, may I present the younger son of Siar, King of Hadhodrond?"

The dwarf bows deeply. "It is my honour."

"Mine, also," Gil-galad replies, bowing his head in turn.

"Will you excuse me a moment?" He hurries off to sort out the disorder on his desk and smooth the feathers of a much put-out Erestor.

"As if this muddle is _my_ fault!" Erestor glares at the couriers.

"It is mine - I expected to return last night and give the letter into your hand." He locates it and gives it to Erestor to be sealed. "I trust I will not be interrupted again."

Back in the corridor, Siar's son shifts his feet nervously, a strange thing in a Dwarf.

"Evidently, I have violated all propriety by entering the baths," Gil-galad explains, his eyebrows furrowed in amusement.

Celebrimbor groans inwardly. "The baths are sacred - only the Aulendili and the servants of Mahal are permitted to enter." Even the other guilds think this devotion to Aulë strange, and he cannot predict Gil-galad's reaction. He had hoped it would pass beneath notice.

"Mahal?"

"It is a Dwarven custom - to take Aulë as if he were one's spouse, and have no other before him. The apprentices dedicate themselves during their tutorship, and many of the Mírdain continue to follow the custom."

The mirth is gone. "Perhaps that is common among Dwarves, but it is not natural to Elves."

"Neither, according to your Laws, are we," Celebrimbor snaps before he gets hold of his tongue. He imagines that Gil-galad has reasons for his policies, but he must know the difference between policy and truth. "Surely, that is not what you believe."

"No." Gil-galad meets his eyes. "I do not." He stalks off toward the courtyard, leaving Celebrimbor perplexed.

He had expected incomprehension, not anger, and stares at the courtyard door as if it will tell him how to navigate Gil-galad's changeable mood. No answers forthcoming, he follows Gil-galad through the door. "We were going to visit some of the smiths at work," he says.

Gil-galad nods and falls into step by his side. Near the forges, several smiths have set up a trestle and brought their designs or filing work out to enjoy the fine day and one another's company. They pause to watch a dwarf at work on a particularly intricate design and then visit Enerdhil and Aranwë. "You will understand better what they are doing when you have seen my work." He has a workroom in the west wing, but uses it only for teaching. He leads Gil-galad through quickly. "I have another forge in my quarters that gives me more privacy."

The Noldor like to display their art, often piling richly-rendered ceilings upon paintings upon stone carvings. Minas Silivren had been designed by Celebrimbor and furnished by other Noldor, but they had done so with its master in mind. It is perhaps more elaborate than Gil-galad would have liked, but far less so than the Noldor thought proper for the High King's palace. Gil-galad's own quarters reflect the severity of his mother and Círdan. The Sindar prefer beautiful things that are also practical, and the most ornate items in Gil-galad's possession are items of everyday use: a heavy comb rendered in jade and mithril; a crystal washbasin; furniture carved with delicate leaves and blossoms by the _Laegrim_. Celebrimbor catches a grimace as they pass through the antechamber of his rooms. (5)

"It is not to your liking, I gather?"

"It is...a bit much," Gil-galad admits.

He laughs, expecting such a reaction. If he has one taste in common with his father that he does not regret, it is a preference for opulent lodgings. His rooms reflect the best of Noldorin excess, from overabundance of ornaments to heavy furniture rich with inlaid gold. Gil-galad looks curiously at two chairs in the passageway; low to the ground, they match the style but not the size of their mates.

"I entertain Dwarves too often to be insensitive to their comfort," he explains. It occurs to Celebrimbor that Gil-galad might well wonder why his bed is made in the Dwarven style. He can hardly tell him that Narvi had complained of the softness of Elven beds.

The thought fills him with both guilt and grief; if he had never been physically unfaithful, he had certainly found comfort beyond the bounds of friendship. Narvi had revealed to him the secrets of the cult of Mahal - techniques that allowed the fëa to transcend the hroa, making all things possible, even things that should not, by the laws of metallurgy and physical existence, be possible. They had joined minds in lieu of bodies and had experienced ecstasy at the hand of Aulë.

Such abilities are not strange to Elves - all can separate the fëa from hroa in living dream, and some of the princes of the Noldor - Finrod, Fëanor, perhaps Galadriel - could do it at will.

To his Children, Mahal had only revealed what he wished them to know, and Dwarves are innately practical. They put their knowledge to use in doors that could open at the will of the maker alone and charms that could bring luck or misfortune to the wearer.

Much more might be done, and this is what he wants to show Gil-galad. Their separation is an ache he cannot transcend, yet it is impossible for him to leave the life he has made for himself in Eregion. Here, he lives his work, rather than does it, among like-minded artists with visions to match his own. In the stratified and organised society of Forlond, with its increasingly rigid morals, he would feel caged.

With this in mind, he leads the way to his private forge. "We are experimenting with the receptive properties of metal and stone. The dwarves know how to bring Aulë's protection into a magic door, and that is what we did with the gates to the city and the West Door of Hadhodrond. Still, there are other ways to influence stone and metal - it is possible to link your fëa with an element, so that it reflects your deepest desires."

"Such as?" Gil-galad looks uneasy.

"You have seen the Elessar that Enerdhil made in Gondolin. He merged within it the light of Anor so that it would have Arien's power to heal and regenerate. Enerdhil has helped us much in our work, but he only knows how to tap the power of another. Our own ability to heal ourselves could be captured, and perhaps used to heal Ennor, and our immortality used to slow the ruin of time. Aulë spoke of such things - he taught that the fëa's existence is separate from that of the hroa, and can transcend the hroa, even in life. I was only beginning to learn of such things." He unlocks the cabinet in which he keeps his most valuable works and takes out a velvet bag. "This is one of my experiments that has borne fruit, though it is not all that I want to do." He unties the bag and removes the object within.

Gil-galad draws a sharp breath. "I have not seen such light since Elwing's flight. Tyelpë-."

"It is not what you think. That light can never be created again, but it can be captured, as Eärendil voyages through the sky."

"I remember the Elessar - Idril once said that it brought them light and warmth as they fled Gondolin. What good use may come of this phial, I cannot say, but there is something wholesome about it. Yet, to tie your very fëa to a piece of jewellery - if such a thing is possible-."

"It can be done, Artanáro."

"It is not a matter of whether it can be done but whether it should be done. What if the object should be destroyed, or come into the hands of evil? You know not what it might cost you."

With effort, he suppresses the hurt and its spawn of fury. Gil-galad will not understand because he is determined not to understand. Celebrimbor now sees that he has come to Eregion not to visit with him but to persuade him - or compel him - to return to Forlond.

They have little to say as they return to Galadhadobel, their way slowed by elf-children who run up with flowers and ribbons for the High King. Out of the corner of his eye, Celebrimbor catches sight of Forug in the shadow of a doorway. He knows that he should inform Gil-galad of Forug's visit, but he remains silent. Gil-galad seems too eager to find fault, and would undoubtedly find some objection to the man, or the Maia Annatar. He finds that he cannot trust Gil-galad's judgement.

Last night, they had dined with the elf-lords of Eregion; tonight, they dine with King Siar's heir and other dwarves of significance. A fortnight hence, the Master of Tharbad and such men as he deems sufficiently important are expected. Celebrimbor has to admire Galadriel's strategy; all of the region's most powerful leaders are thus honoured.

"Dwarven ale is barely drinkable, but strong, and Har is shrewd enough to see his advantage if he suspects that your senses are less than acute. If you do not wish to wake up with a new trade agreement, I suggest moderation," Celebrimbor says as Galadriel's footman announces their arrival.

If the previous night's affair had been elegant and polite, this feast has a more jovial air. Not even Galadriel's regal detachment and Celeborn's obvious discomfort with the evening's guests can repress the dwarves' warm good spirits. Gil-galad, almost from the beginning of the feast, passes the night in close conversation with Har. If confronted, he would insist upon the importance of Har's good will, but Celebrimbor is certain now that Gil-galad avoids his company.

In truth, he is disappointed; he had imagined presenting the city to Gil-galad, revealing what most visitors would miss. He wants to take him to the Apprentices' Market, where musicians play their harps for coins and smiths offer their works for sale or swap, all with a cheery air of jest and good humour more reminiscent of a faire than a marketplace. He wants to show him the school for those of lesser means, where young elves are taught by the guilds, learning their letters from some of the finest hands among Elvenkind and reckoning with weights and measures under the tutelage of alchemists. He wants to take him to Hadhodrond and climb the Endless Stair to Durin's Tower.

All of this he had imagined, but the agenda leaves no time for such foolery - nor for him. He accompanies Gil-galad on his errands to the various guilds and to endless suppers with self-important lords; they make love without feeling and speak only the most necessary words. He is weary of the games - they are both well past their sixth Valian year and members of a people that had named themselves for their facility with words. Had they been of courting age, they could not be more inarticulate.

His forge, normally his refuge, feels tainted by Gil-galad's disapproval, and he finds angry haste to be a poor substitute for patient experimentation. In two days, Gil-galad will leave Eregion, and the wall between them might as well be Hithaeglir. Frustrated, he leaves the forge, having produced work fit only to be melted down. A walk will clear his head, perhaps.

* * *

The days are hot, but cool air rushes down swiftly from the mountains at night, and on the high plateau of Eregion, the stars are nearly close enough to touch. Surely, no prayer to Varda can go unheard here.

He has not the skill to repair this - he comes from a line of failed bonds, from the fateful severing of Míriel and Finwë, through his grandmother's return to the house of her father, to his mother's refusal to follow Curufin into Doom and death. 'Do not take this from me,' he pleads with the Lady. 'I will die, if you take this from me. It is life itself.'

_Is it your lover or your craft of which you speak, Tyelperinquar? For one will fall to fire, the other shall live in death. Which do you choose?_

He finds himself now opposite Galadhadobel, though he had not intended to return there tonight. A sole figure walks among the trees - clearly, Varda has drawn him hither. At the gate, a sharp-eyed guard lets him into the grounds.

"Such moonlight meetings are certain to cause talk, Tauren."

Gil-galad frowns. "I expected you to be at the feast tonight."

"The affairs of Men are your interest, not mine."

"True, and you concern yourself very little with my interests these days."

"I might say the same for you. I tire of playing squire to you - do you remember that once, we were lovers? Even in bed, though your body has been willing enough, your fëa pulls away. Have I become so inconvenient to you?"

"You speak boldly for one who has refused my every invitation," Gil-galad says, a warning edge in his voice.

"Would you have come here otherwise? I hoped that you would see - that you would understand why Forlond would be a prison to me. But your eyes are dimmed to all but your own petty desires. You have an unfortunate wont to see your tragedy as unique, Artanáro. It is not only the politics of court that weary me - your needs are endless." (6)

"I weary you," Gil-galad says softly. "I was not aware that I had become a burden. Perhaps you wish to swear yourself to Aulë, in the hopes that he will reveal all his secrets to you? Or perhaps there is another. I cannot read your heart anymore - the secrets you keep are too well guarded."

Celebrimbor freezes. "Neither," he finds his voice. "I have been true to you, in intention and deed."

Gil-galad looks at him a long while. "You have. Yet still, you withhold from me."

To speak of Narvi is too painful, and he does not know how to do so in a manner that would satisfy Gil-galad's limited understanding of the transcendence of the fëa and yet not reduce Narvi to a passing fancy. In any event, he does not believe that Gil-galad seeks this from him, but if it is not Narvi, he cannot fathom what secret Gil-galad believes him to be keeping.

"I am not weary of you, Artanáro. I am weary of being led hither and yon, as it suits you and your policies."

"Think you that I like to curry favour with lords who followed Maedhros to the last, who still see me as a usurper and their inferior? My heart is ever with you. Duty demands that I be discreet."

"Now it is you who is dishonest," he says, feeling fresh heat spread over his face. "Duty, you say - it is another excuse, Artanáro. You are lonely because you trust no one."

"How dare you?" Gil-galad stops in his tracks. "At every turn, you have followed your will. You chose to leave Aman. You chose to lift your sword against your kin. You chose to disown your father and you chose not to go to Tumhalad. You chose to seduce me and you chose to leave Forlond. You know nothing about duty - you have spent your life avoiding it." He grasps Celebrimbor's arm, forcing him to face him. "Bonds cannot be severed, Tyelpë, no matter how you might wish it. But they can become so strained as to disappear altogether."

* * *

Aland's fire-water is far more suited to Celebrimbor's mood, but at this hour, wine will have to do.

He recognises the feeling, though it takes him a moment to place it: Nargothrond, Year 468 of the Elder Days. Once again, he has a sense of loss from a rupture he has long expected and a caustic tongue - another gift of his father - to thank for it. One can never truly repudiate one's sire, he reflects. The father lives in the son. (7)

He comes from a rebellious clan that held creation above all else - even love. Love - great passion - had been the rule and ruin of their Fingolfinian cousins. But to Finarfin and his golden brood had Eru gifted wisdom. From Finrod, Celebrimbor had learnt that mere knowing is not enough - wisdom comes from the heart, not the head.

It was inevitable that they would clash, Celebrimbor muses. Freedom - from Doom, from guilt, from expectations - for which his heart yearns - is foreign to one who understands innately that the measure of a king lies not in the willingness of his subjects to serve him, but in the king's willingness to serve his subjects.

 _Ilsanwa_ , they called it in Valinor: true silver. Malleable when need be; in armour it is light yet hard as steel. He had fallen in love with Gil-galad for the qualities he himself lacked. (8)

* * *

"How much of that did you intend?"

Gil-galad, comb in hand as his hair dries in the sunlight, moves to give Celebrimbor space to sit on the stone bench. "I am not sure." He glances at Celebrimbor. "We know each other too well - we know the words that will hurt."

Ordinarily, he would take the comb from Gil-galad's hand. Without delay that might bring failure of nerve, he reaches out. Gil-galad tips his head back, either in pleasure or to make the task easier for Celebrimbor - it matters not; Celebrimbor is encouraged by it.

"I did not see that you were so unhappy," he says.

"I feel...trapped. I cannot leave Forlond and I cannot compel you to return. I suppose that I envy you your freedom. At every turn, I am forced to make decisions I do not like, but must make for the sake of the people."

"The people have great love for you, Artanáro."

"They loved Ingoldo, too, yet it took but a silver tongue to turn them away. I do not say that to bring you pain, but it is easy to rule in times of peace. Would that I had the power to make such peace last! Yet I fear it is already fragile. _'For all the land was filled now with a foreboding of evil.'_ When the Shadow falls upon us, I will need more than their love - I will need their trust.

"I am weary, Tyelpë. I have been a hostage to change all my days, and I am weary. What contentment I have found has not been lasting." (9)

"To hold back time - preserve what you have - it is the oldest desire of our people," Celebrimbor murmurs. The ability to do this dances just beyond his fingertips.

" _You_ have changed - there is a brilliance to you, an energy that thrums inside you. I do not see my place in your world."

An idea begins to form in his mind. Perhaps he can bring Gil-galad to the source of that energy - perhaps they can find understanding at last. "I think," he says, "that I can show you in a way that will satisfy both of us."

* * *

Tilion rises late tonight, and in his fullness his lust for Arien is most palpable. Excusing themselves from Galadriel's salon, they make their way to the stables, where Gil-galad kisses him with passion uncaring for those who might see them in the night's clear light.

"I think our hosts are as glad to see us go as we are to leave them," Celebrimbor says, drawing a ragged breath. He had cheerfully ignored Galadriel's hints about the lateness of the hour and the less subtle looks exchanged between husband and wife. He had a reason to delay their leave-taking.

As he hoped, the baths, most popular at aduial when the smiths have laid aside their work, are deserted when they reach Bar-i-Mírdain. On a dark night, candles might float in the water, but tonight, there is no need, and the moonlight casts a bluish sheen on the white marble. Gil-galad exclaims in wonder. His reaction pleases Celebrimbor absurdly - at last, something of his craft charms his lover.

"Are you not concerned that we will defile the baths?" Gil-galad smirks as he steps out of his robes.

"The heat that warms the baths comes from the great forges of Aulë, but is not the water Ulmo's work? Surely, the foster-son of Círdan, beloved of Ulmo, has his favour." He steps into the bath and sits on a ledge that follows the outer walls. "Come to me."

Gil-galad steps into the bath and sheds the last of the barriers in his mind. Celebrimbor plucks from his thought an aching desire to mate, in contrast to mere lust and bodily union, and he guides him to sit between his legs. Encouraged by the glasslike clarity, he pushes on. "I want you to lead me into fantasy - let me join you in your mind as you create it."

He rests his chin on Gil-galad's shoulder and probes gently, but meets white space.

Gil-galad sighs, resisting. A flicker of images - of his mouth held firmly to a nipple, of Gil-galad's hair running through his fingers - flashes in Celebrimbor's mind, but he cannot yet feel what he sees. He nuzzles his lips against the tip of Gil-galad's ear, and the spark of desire transports him to Gil-galad's bedchamber, filling his nostrils with the pungent odour of sex and his groin with the heaviness of fulfilment long delayed.

_His fingers trace the velvety surface of his fullness, feathery and quick, but his mouth is more purposeful, his lips firm against the heated skin of Gil-galad's inner thighs, leaving roses behind that will surely be painful for a day. Gil-galad's desire passes into the realm of too much, the stimulation too intense, and Celebrimbor senses the pleasant agony - of wanting this to continue and needing more decisive stimulation._

He has become more selfish, less giving with time - aggressively receptive, Celebrimbor thinks. What he wants is a singular devotion. Celebrimbor feels a tinge of sadness; his craft is a jealous mistress. He will always fall short, in Gil-galad's eyes.

But the landscape is changing. He senses resistance, not to him or his presence but to Gil-galad's own thought.

_His thrusts grow more urgent, the fire in his loins now in control, yet this is not his fantasy and Gil-galad is withdrawing, holding back with desperate will. "Like pebbles to dam a river," Gil-galad murmurs before everything is lost in an explosion of fire and feeling._

Fire creates, yet it also destroys - he knows that the depths of his memory bring no comfort. Still, he is resentful that Gil-galad is drawn to that fire like a moth, yet repulsed by all that it represents. Disappointed, he pulls himself out of the bath and dries himself with a fierceness that reddens his skin in protest. As his anger subsides, the steady drip of water on the marble floor reaches his ears. He turns around to see Gil-galad shuddering at the livid bruises on his thighs and feels a measure of shame.

Gil-galad's face might have been carved from the same alabaster as the baths. "That was no fantasy," he says accusingly. "Do these visions come from Aulë? Or is some sorcery at work here?" He falters. "I - I do not have the gift of sight, yet this night, I have seen what is to be."

Celebrimbor reaches out, but Gil-galad slips from his fingers.

"I saw the end of all things, and it is you, Tyelpë."

* * *

"You wish that I would return with you."

Gil-galad looks up from his seat, his leg extended as Elwandor tightens the laces on his riding boots. "I know you think me selfish."

Things had taken a very different course in the baths from that for which he had hoped, and he finds himself more reluctant than ever to confide in his king and lover. At one time, he had believed he would never overcome the curse upon his line, and perhaps he cannot overcome it, but he now finds in his heritage hope of redemption.

"Hope is a fragile thing, Artanáro. Do not ask me to leave it behind."

"No. I would not. Yet-." At a subtle tap from Elwandor, he extends his other leg. "I have not felt easy here. There is something foul about - I hear it in the whispers of the Sirannon. And then, you speak of things that truly put fear in my heart, not only as your lover but also as your king. I have to consider that, Tyelpë - I will not allow one person's demons to bring ruin to my kingdom."

"That is history, Artanáro. I am not Túrin."

 _'Gobennas natha i amarth a thi ai den awarthar.'_ (10)

 _History will be the doom of those who forsake it._ "Pengolodh again?"

"No. Círdan." A smile flickers and fades. "I find myself preoccupied, checking and rechecking the locks, if you will. Wondering if we have missed anything, left ourselves vulnerable."

Celebrimbor reaches into his sleeve and withdraws a velvet bag. "I feel that you are meant to have this."

"The phial of Eärendil," Gil-galad says softly. "A light for a time of darkness." He secures it to his belt of his tunic and grasps Celebrimbor's hands. "Perhaps my uneasiness has made me harsh, but in truth, I am lonely without you."

"I am not capable of all you desire in me, Artanáro."

"No. But I will make do - I always have." He releases Celebrimbor's hands as Moebeth enters to announce that the procession is ready to leave. "I will see you in Forlond in Ethuil?"

"You will."

Varda's riddle - and Gil-galad's vision - seem clear to him, now: jewellery might be cast into fire, but the bond of lovers is as immortal as the fëa of an Elf. He must tell Gil-galad; suddenly, it seems vitally important to tell him.

With Galadriel and Celeborn, he sees the High King to the gates of the city, but their leave-taking there is ceremonial - the moment to express his innermost sentiments is lost. He had wanted to prove his need to be in Eregion; Gil-galad simply wants to know that he is loved. It is a lesson well learnt - in the future, he will keep his own counsel.

The gates open and with a shout from Gil-galad, the horses leap into a gallop and are soon far away.

At last, the words come to him: _Know this: you are loved._

The ósanwë twists in the wind; one's mind must be open to receive. Too little it is, and now too late.

* * *

(1) _ithron_ (S)  
wizard

(2) _Taur fael nín!_ (S)  
My good king!

(3) _Bar-i-Mírdain_ (S)  
House of the Jewel-smiths. Changed from _Car_ in 01-04-14 edit. I used _Bar-i-Mírdain_ in a later chapter, based on Tolkien's phrase for the Houses of Healing in _The War of the Ring_. As near I can tell, _bair_ (the plural of _bar_ ) was his final choice before scrapping the Sindarin name of the Houses in the final edit of LOTR. ( _The War of the Ring_ , 'The Pyre of Denethor' pp 379-380 pub Houghton Mifflin). I've used the genitival sense and nasal mutation of _in_ here, following the example of _Annon-in-Gelydh_ , 'Door of the Noldor'.

(4) 'Durin ruled a long time'  
I'm assuming that the Durin (Durin II?) named on the West Gate lived longer than usual, though not so long as Durin I.

(5) _Laegrim_ (S)  
Green elves (class pl of _laegel_ )

(6) 'your needs are endless'  
This sounds like a modern concept to me, but in fact, it's straight out of Tolkien: _'You both have your needs. But what of Finduilas?'_ (ref _Unfinished Tales_ , 'Narn i Hîn Húrin - Appendix' p 166 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(7) 'Year 468 of the Elder Days'  
It is not precisely clear what year Curufin and Celegorm were thrown out of Nargothrond. Robert Foster gives 466-468 for the departure of Finrod from Nargothrond to the capture of the Silmaril. (ref Robert Foster, _The Complete Guide to Middle-earth_ , 'Appendix A' p 558 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) In 'The Grey Annals', Tolkien puts the departure of Curufin and Celegorm in 465. (ref _The War of the Jewels_ , 'The Grey Annals' p 67 pub Houghton Mifflin) _The Silmarillion_ , however, gives a slightly different accounting of time. Dagor Bragollach is set firmly in 455. (ref 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin' pp 175-6 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) The assault on Hithlum and the death of Barahir occurs seven years later, or in 462. (ref Ibid. pp 188-9) Four more years pass before Beren comes to Doriath, and it takes him at least a year to woo Lúthien and set out for Nargothrond, bringing us to 467. (ref Ibid. 'Of Beren and Lúthien' p 192) Therefore, assuming that this sequence of events is part of a late revision and not a mistake on Christopher's part, I think the date given by Foster more likely.

(8) _ilsanwa_ (Q)  
mithril - this word is entirely constructed for the purposes of this story from _anwa_ , 'real, actual, true' and _ilsa_ , the 'mystic name of silver' (properly Qenya and possibly not even valid in mature Quenya). (ref _The Book of Lost Tales 1_ , 'Appendix' p 292 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) Most likely, assuming that mithril was to be found in Valinor (a question in itself), the Quenya word would be the direct cognate of the Sindarin word and formed from _mista_ , 'grey' and _rilya_ , 'glittering, brilliance'.

(9) _'For all the land was filled now with a foreboding of evil.''  
_ (ref _Unfinished Tales_ , 'Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin' p 41 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(10) _'Gobennas natha i amarth a thi ai den awarthar.'_ (S)  
'History will be the doom of those who forsake it.' This is as near as I could come to George Santayana's oft-quoted words, _'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.'_ (ref George Santayana, _The Life of Reason, Volume 1_ )  
Construction: _gobennas_ , 'history'; _natha_ , 'will be' (3rd pers pl future tense of _naw_ , 'to be', based on David Salo's reconstruction); _i amarth_ , 'the doom'; _a thi_ , 'for they/them' (nasal mutation of _an ti_ ); _ai_ , 'who' (this word is found in Tolkien's translation of the 'Pater Noster', and its significance is uncertain - in my very amateur opinion, it is merely _i_ , 'who', with _a_ tacked on to separate it from another word ending in _i_ for reasons of clarity and aesthetics); _den_ , 'it' (soft mutation of _ten_ ); _awarthar_ , 'forsake' (3rd pers pl of _awartha-_ , 'to forsake'). (ref David Salo, _A Gateway to Sindarin_ , 'Verbs' p 122 pub University of Utah Press; _Vinyar Tengwar_ , No 44 p 21, June 2002)


	12. Forlond, SA 1252

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 'Last Writings', Tolkien states that Gil-galad did meet with Annatar. This seems more plausible to me than the versions told in 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age' and 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn', in which he bars Annatar and his emissaries from Lindon altogether. One does not meddle in the affairs of wizards without good reason, such as strong feeling that could only come from an actual meeting. (1)

**Ethuil**

"Old Ossë is in a rare temper tonight," Elwandor says, whisking away the empty teacup.

A spate of rain strikes the windows; Gil-galad can just make out the foam-tipped waves rising like snakes under a starless sky. "That he is. What is his complaint, do you think?"

Elwandor shakes his head. "I cannot say. If the matter concerns the Elves, I am sure our Lord Shipwright will know it. By your leave?"

Gil-galad hides a smile at the Falathren elf's - and his own - implied deference to Círdan. "You may retire."

He shrugs out of his dressing gown and slides between sheets made cosy by a bed-warmer in defiance of the cold streaming between the windowpanes. In the quiet moments, those between night and living dream, he finds simple joy in his bond to Celebrimbor, a comforting glow that lights the way to pleasant dream.

The morning fails to quiet Ossë. Clouds hang heavy over Forlond and Arien watches from a far distance. Nonetheless, the courier had reached Minas Silivren in advance of the storm, and Elwandor has tucked two personal letters underneath the bread plate. One comes from Celebrimbor, the other from Númenor.

The latter pleases Gil-galad almost as much as the former. With the Lord of Andúnië's aid, he had sent cautious overtures of friendship to Anárion, the son and apparent heir to Tar Ancalimë. The letter makes no promises, but indicates a cordiality missing from current relations with Númenor. Anárion is clearly not his headstrong grandfather, but that is perhaps well; Gil-galad feels partly at fault for the coldness between their people. Had he curbed Aldarion's wilfulness, perhaps his daughter would be less self-engrossed.

Celebrimbor has addressed his letter in beautiful, looping tengwar: an ancient style. His own writing is precise and unembellished, designed for haste. The King's Hand, to his amusement, is now the standard taught to young elves. His tutors, who had tried in vain to teach him the art of writing, would weep, but art is best left to those to whom it is their business, he believes.

Art is most certainly Celebrimbor's business, but he has little to tell of his work; rather, he sends affection and warm desire.

He holds the letter in his lap, unsettled. He cannot decipher the words between the lines, yet what is unsaid, he judges, is left deliberately so. What is it that Celebrimbor chooses not to tell him?

* * *

He takes unnecessary care in the blotting of his signature, his mind still preoccupied by Celebrimbor's letter. The waning of passion, claim the loremasters, is the usual course of love between Elves. Yet passion is not lacking, nor is love. The loss of a confederate - a like mind whose support and advice he can trust - he mourns most in Celebrimbor's absence.

He reproaches the roiling sky for encouraging such melancholy. In the midst of a bitter storm, the usual sounds of the palace drown in the wind and he feels like he is the last child of Ilúvatar. Enraged howls batter the windows, as if something is desperate to come inside the walls.

Gil-galad jumps at a knock at his door and laughs shakily at his own imagination. "Yes?"

Elrond slips into the room. "You have the most curious visitor."

"Can he wait? I will be in the presence chamber shortly."

Elrond's brow creases. "So I would have told him, but I thought you would rather receive a Maia privately."

"A Maia? Truly?"

"Indeed." Elrond's face is strangely neutral.

Across the threshold, the Maia casts a shadow of immense height, and upon appearance, his form nearly fills the doorway. He has chosen the guise of a Man - a very well-formed man, in Gil-galad's opinion.

"Artanáro Artaherion, Tar Etyangoldion. I have long anticipated this meeting." (2)

"Then I am at a disadvantage, for I neither anticipated this meeting nor are you known to me."

"You may call me Annatar, for to bring gifts upon Men and Elves have I been sent hither."

'He is modest, at least,' Gil-galad thinks sardonically. Should he await the Maia's permission to sit, or does the other await his invitation? "Please sit," he says finally, and when Annatar is settled, he takes his own chair. "The only gift we ask is the dissolution of the Shadow."

"The shadow?"

"The evil that now creeps across Ennor - an agent of Morgoth who awakens his foul issue and plants darkness in the hearts of Men." (3)

"I know nothing of any shadow, save the Doom the Elves have taken upon themselves." He smiles beneficently. "I come to lift that burden from you, to show you how Ennor might be made as blissful as the Blissful Realm itself."

Gil-galad raises his eyebrows. True, the Doom is but prophecy, but such prophecy had been made with Eru's design in mind. He is too well versed in his faith to be caught so easily. "You claim to come at the behest of the Valar, yet what you suggest - that we Elves can recreate the bliss of Aman in Ennor - is blasphemous."

For just a moment, the mask slips. "You labour under the delusion that the Valar still concern themselves with Ennor. Having refused their summons, do you believe that they hear your prayers?"

"I do not believe - I know. I know that Ulmo still whispers in the waters; I know that Manwë's great servants, the eagles, still watch over us; I know that Varda still hears us when we call to her." For whatever purpose this Annatar might have come, he has done so without charge of the Valar. The Ainur are to be honoured, he has been taught, but he knows also that the Wise are not always so. He draws a deep breath. "I do not think we have need of your 'gifts', Annatar. Here or elsewhere in Ennor."

Before Gil-galad can recoil, Annatar has reached across the desk. His thumb traces the hollow above his jaw and kisses over his lips. "Time will come when you regret," he says softly. "When all your allies hearken to me, you will stand alone in your righteousness." With a flourish of his cloak, he is gone.

Gil-galad touches his face. His skin burns as if he has leant too near to a forge.

Elrond re-enters, shutting the door behind him.

"See that he leaves the city."

"I have already sent two of the guard to ensure it."

"You do not trust him, either."

"No."

* * *

He dreams of the most intimate of touches, his own urgency hurrying toward a conclusion that is physically satisfying and yet without pleasure. As his shudders bring him near to waking, Celebrimbor's grey eyes darken to blackest night; a thumb caresses his jaw.

Fully alert now, he seethes with indignation. What right has this Annatar to disturb his dreams? What right has he to assault him where trust and closeness leave him most unguarded? He throws back the covers and goes to the washbasin, hardly noticing the cold as he does his best to cleanse himself. His skin fairly crawls.

"You are about early, híren," Elwandor remarks, entering the bedchamber. He kneels by the grate and stirs the fire to life. "Will you want your breakfast now?"

"Yes - and ask Elrond to join me." After Annatar's departure, a pall of inaction had come over him. Now, he feels as if a spell has been lifted and his turn has come to advance his pawn.

Elrond arrives in the wake of Elwandor's return with breakfast. "I am sorry for my appearance, but I was just rising-."

Gil-galad waves off the apology with impatience. "Send for Círdan as soon as you can. I suppose that we will have to have Arphenion present." He thinks for a moment. He needs the advice of an Exile who might have known Annatar in Valinor, and he wants one less cavillous than Arphenion. "And Gildor," he adds. He sips at his tea, already turned cold. "And then I want every book and scroll in the library that might refer to Annatar."

"All of this before breakfast?"

"I suppose you may eat first," he concedes with a grin.

"What exactly is it that you fear?" Elrond reaches for the bread. "What is Annatar's intention, do you think?"

"That is just what I fear - I do not _know_ what he intends." Already, he is a step behind.

* * *

The weather has turned fair again. The gardeners sorrowfully collect leaves and branches torn away by the storm, but the lawns are clearly glad for the rain. Too restless to sit down to work that seems trivial in light of yesterday's visitor, Gil-galad is drawn to the window overlooking the gardens, where the court has turned out in pairs and threes. Birds swoop and chatter at the elves, eager to play. Two fly up to his window, calling to him. He laughs at their antics. "Off with you! Have you not a nest to build?" The birds look at one another and then at his window, and he might swear that they are considering his window ledge for that very purpose. He hopes that they will, though he suspects that the housemaids will take a dim view of the mess.

Far below, Luinel and a companion catch sight of him at the window and gesture for him to come down. He smiles and shakes his head; just to stand in the golden light of Anor lifts his heart. Behind the two ladies, the ancient horse-master sets a dignified pace with his wife, nodding indulgently at a younger pair of lovers who sit entwined in close conversation by the fountain.

Elemmakil and Thilia: Gil-galad grimaces upon recognition of the couple. He can do nothing about the situation that has all the courtiers atwitter. His authority seeks to promote the Laws, but they are not his to judge - only the Valar can do that. Truthfully, he is rather relieved to leave the matter to the Powers, given his unfortunate history with Thilia.

No, he wishes her every happiness but cannot see how she will find it in Egalmoth's lover. Elemmakil's newfound love is incomprehensible to Gil-galad; such faithlessness to a mate should not happen, not among their kind. Not even the Halls of Mandos can separate two elves once bonded - or so he has been taught.

* * *

"And you sent him away?" Arphenion's voice rises to the edge of disbelief.

"You did not speak with him," Gil-galad says patiently. "You will have to trust my instinct."

"Your instinct I do not doubt. Your wisdom, I suspect."

"Just as one might suspect the wisdom of making war on a Vala."

"Do not quote your history books at me," Arphenion snaps. "I lived those wars of which you have only read."

"I am aware that I have made a powerful enemy, Arphenion, but I fear his friendship comes at greater cost." He turns to Gildor. "Did you know this Annatar in Valinor?"

"I think he is using a name convenient to his purpose, and whatever physical form he assumed in Valinor, it would not have been that of a Man in the Years of the Trees. Yet," Gildor glances at Arphenion, "he might not have been known to us at all and still, that would not signify that he was once a servant of Morgoth."

"But you think that possible," Gil-galad presses, an idea forming in his mind.

"I think it probable."

He glances at Arphenion in surprise.

"Círdan?"

The ancient elf is silent for a moment. "The temptation is strong to overstep ourselves and assume powers best left to those with the wisdom to wield them, be we Elf or Maia, Vala or Man. Evil may come of the best intentions."

Gil-galad looks at Círdan soberly, understanding the warning inherent in his words.

"If we are agreed, then, that Annatar comes with no good purpose," Elrond says, "should we not warn the Eldar in Eriador and our friends among Men?"

"And Oropher and the Avari," Gildor adds.

Gil-galad pulls at his braid with a sigh. He thinks it unlikely that the Sindarin lord - or king, as he now calls himself - feels more kindly towards him today than he did in the past Age. "A warning from me might well be an invitation to Annatar," he admits.

"I do not think Oropher is so ruled by his passions," Círdan says. "My heart tells me that he wants to be left in peace."

"I think our efforts are better concentrated on Men," Arphenion interjects.

"Elves can also be deceived," Círdan says mildly.

"Will Men heed our warnings?" Gildor asks. "What he might promise them - riches, power - might seem hard to resist, even at the cost of our friendship."

"I think it best that we do not threaten them," Gil-galad says. "Rather, we must show them that his 'gifts' do not come unfettered. I think the Edain will hear that."

* * *

He rubs his eyes, irritated by dust in volumes that no one has taken from the shelves since scribes last copied them for preservation. Valar, how many elves had written their memoirs while awaiting their turn to sail to Tol Eressëa? He closes another book and adds it to the pile of rejects.

Elrond reads with the practiced eye of one used to skimming for information, his right hand turning the pages steadily. His left hand swipes repeatedly at an errant braid, tucking it again behind one tapered ear.

'From his father,' Gil-galad thinks. Elwing, he remembers, has round ears, like those of Men. He wonders if that erect tip is as sensitive as the tip of Elven ears. Does the caress of a tongue over the flushed point elicit soft gasps? Perhaps none have ever dared. He is once again stymied by all that he does not know of his reticent adviser.

Elrond looks up suddenly, as if he feels the pierce of Gil-galad's eyes. "Did you need my assistance?"

The act of staring is one for which no Elf would feel compelled to apologise. Gil-galad nonetheless has the urge to do so. That, he chides himself, comes of impure thoughts.

"I begin to think this is hopeless," he says. "If Arphenion and Gildor do not know him, it is not likely that the daughter of a shoemaker will be much help."

Elrond looks relieved. "We do not even know what it is that we seek, and in the meantime, we have neglected all else."

Gil-galad glances at the growing stacks of letters and petitions and cringes. Elrond begins to collect the volumes scattered about, and Gil-galad finds himself staring again. A shiver of desire courses through his body. _Seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust_. What tales are told do not end well. He might blame Celebrimbor's absence, but the failing is his alone, and he knows not what to do about it. (4)

* * *

"So! What is it that you want to discuss in private?" Círdan asks, deftly filleting his salmon.

"Perhaps I asked you to supp in my chambers because I was jealous of your company," Gil-galad hedges with a smile.

"Hmmm."

Gil-galad swirls the wine in his glass. "What if Annatar and the Shadow are the same?"

"Do you think that they are?"

"I am filled with doubt," he admits. "To turn him away from Lindon is one thing, but to spread word of my mistrust amongst our allies is akin to an attack."

"Trust in your perception, Ereinion. I do."

"You do not think that I overstep myself, opposing a Maia?"

"No," Círdan says. "I think it is your doom."

* * *

**Laer**

> _I fear your warning comes too late, for Annatar has already been received by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. I distrusted him immediately, and in Valinor, I heard of no such Maia among the Aulendili. Yet, the favour you have bestowed upon Celebrimbor, and his status - particularly among those who served his House - place me in a difficult position, and I am reluctant to act._ (5)

Gil-galad laughs without humour. Galadriel cares little for his authority and even less for Celebrimbor's status as Lord of Eregion. For reasons known only to her, she has chosen to abstain from decision here. Surely, though, Celebrimbor will disassociate himself from the Maia upon receipt of his letter.

Still, if one of the Calaquendi can be so deceived, then perhaps they have dismissed Annatar's appeal to the elves beyond Hithaeglir too quickly. Círdan will know best how to approach the elves of Belfalas, Gil-galad decides. As for Oropher...who better to send as his emissary than Oropher's own kin? He picks up a sheet of parchment and begins to write. (6)

A separation, that is all that is needed. This unwholesome desire will wane in Elrond's absence. It must.

* * *

(1) Tolkien states that Gil-galad did meet with Annatar  
( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'Last Writings' p382 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(2) _Artanáro Artaherion, Tar Etyangoldion_ (Q)  
Artanáro son of Artaher, High King of the Exiled Noldor - _Artaher_ is Arothir's Quenya name; _Etyangoldion_ is the genitive case of attested _Etyangoldi_.

(3) agent of Morgoth  
Gil-galad knew quite early on that the Shadow was connected to Morgoth, and stated this in his letter to Tar Meneldur, written in 882. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , 'Aldarion and Erendis' p209 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(4) _Seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust.  
_ ( _Morgoth's Ring_ , 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar' p210 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(5) I heard of no such Maia among the Aulendili  
( _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p266 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(6) Oropher's own kin  
Legolas twice refers to his kinship with Celeborn in _FOTR_. ( _LOTR_ , Book Two, Ch VI p339 & 346 pub Houghton Mifflin) As Nimloth, Elrond's grandmother, is Celeborn's niece, Elrond would be relatively close kin to Oropher, assuming that Oropher is also a descendant of Elmo, the most likely source of Celeborn's kinship with Legolas. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p244 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)


	13. Eregion SA 1325

> _The courier has presently delivered your letter. You know my sentiments: I would have you here, in Forlond, but in your absence, your warm greetings never fail to bring the Sun to this cheerless wintertime._
> 
> _I wish also that you would ease my concerns regarding Annatar. Thrice, I have asked you to disassociate yourself with him; thrice now, you have not answered me. Yet he remains a guest of the Mírdain._
> 
> _My patience grows thin. Once more, I ask - no, beg - of you: send him away._

Celebrimbor folds the letter. He has started a dozen letters in answer, each attesting to the great knowledge and qualities of Annatar, and each time he founders at the words 'fair-seeming'. Yet, he can do no better, for he cannot entirely trust him.

The Maia had come to Eregion in 1252 and told nothing of his unsuccessful suit in Forlond.

"During the time of my wanderings," Annatar had confided, leaning in close to be heard over the noise of the tavern, "when I had recently come to Ennor, I travelled with a caravan of dwarves returning from the Ered Mithrin. They had been apprenticed to the Mírdain, and spoke of the great works underway, of jewels that might hold the power of their maker. Naturally, you were known to me, for the great promise you had shewn in the train of Aulë. Thus did my hopes find a means of bearing, for whereas I cannot be everywhere at once, such jewels could be as seeds, spreading far and wide such gifts as I would bestow upon Men and Elves."

Only when Gil-galad's earnest warning came by courier had Celebrimbor learnt the whole of the matter.

"And now I am caught," he had said to Annatar, "for I must obey my King."

"Do you not mean to say your lover? A lover who scarcely understands you, but clings to you as a relic of his past?"

"By your own account, he allowed you only a brief interview. You name him guilty of hasty judgement, but you are guilty of the same."

"Yet, I had the advantage of knowing his thoughts, for his mind was surprisingly open to me."

This Celebrimbor had known to be a lie, Gil-galad being too wary to leave his thoughts so unguarded. Yet in the lie was a kernel of truth. The understanding that he had found so effortless with Narvi has long been missed in their intercourse. He has disappointed Gil-galad, but he, too, has wished for something more.

_"He would cage you, if he could."_

Thus has Annatar reasoned with him, always holding forth the carrot: the knowledge Celebrimbor so desperately wants.

> _I will not argue with your distrust, for I am not certain that his intentions are entirely revealed by his words of friendship. Yet I do not doubt his claim to be a Maia of Aulë, nor that he might grant me knowledge that will be of great use, not only to me, but to all of the Noldor. I assure you that I am vigilant, and that we will do nothing for Annatar that seems unwise._
> 
> _Moreover, I fear that you have made a greater enemy than you perceive. You know that the Maiar can be relentless in their grudges, and so long as you work against him, will he do the same against you. Better that you should come to a truce with him, bearing in mind that he is neither Man nor Elf to be easily subdued._

* * *

The Mírdain now forge charms that permit the wearer to present the illusion of invisibility or disguised shape. Such tricks of the eye depend on the beholder; the deception is limited (for so Finrod and his companions, employing a similar trick, had failed to deceive Sauron). Such is art: the arrangement of the ordinary to appear extraordinary. When Celebrimbor was small, his grandmother kept a glass bird on a shelf. From the age at which he could understand such things, he had looked at the creature in wonder, for it should not, could not balance on one leg as it did. At last, he had grown so curious that he climbed up to the shelf, only to find that the illusion was one of suspension: it did not stand, but hung from a wire.

One is not meant to look too closely at art, lest one see the wire and soldering and flaws and ruin the illusion of beauty. In life alone can beauty be given substance, and now, having created countless objects of art, he longs to create something of substance, something of life.

Frustrated with his progress, he confronts Annatar. "The High King becomes increasingly impatient with your presence here, and I find my own defence of you ever less convincing. If you deal straight with me, then let us move on with the lessons. Else, it might be good for you to seek other realms."

"Temper is the failing of your line, son of Curufin. So the High King presses still? Has it not occurred to you that he confuses his heart with the voice of wisdom?

"Should you succeed in bringing an end to the Doom, what will you do? Will you go West? For that is what he fears. He hopes that you will fail. Trust in me, and I will not allow you to fail."

* * *

Enerdhil breaks open a mould to reveal a jewel setting of white gold; mithril, they have found resistant to manipulation of its properties, so they work primarily with gold or copper. "Pardon my candour, but such games of trust stranded the Noldor on the Helcaraxë," he says, his mouth twisted in annoyance at Celebrimbor's explanation for the delays. He, too, had been a student of Aulë, and these charms hold no mystery for him. "Who is this Maia to demand our loyalty?"

This is the price of which Gil-galad has warned him. To what purpose does Annatar test them, withholding his gifts that he might be sure of their trust? What, once he is certain that the Mírdain are under his sway, will he ask of them?

"His knowledge he offered freely, when first he came hither, but he has given us nothing we did not have, and offers more at a price. I am loath to say that he is faithless, but I do not like his manner," Celebrimbor admits.

"And yet, we are hooked already. What we might do - what you might do, híren - under his teaching!"

" _Ai! Entassë caita nassë_ , as Rúmil would say. We have no choice but to go forward," he sighs. _Therein lies the rub._ His craft, which he cannot distinguish from his being, will not release him. (1)

Leaving Enerdhil to his work, he returns to his quarters. Behind the closed door of Celebrimbor's private forge, Annatar, too, is at work. He is irritated to be locked out of his own rooms and unbearably curious about the work, but has learnt, at the cost of Annatar's black anger, not to disturb him. He sends a servant to get his dinner from the kitchen and shuffles through a book of Khuzdûl poetry until he finds the thin vellum sheets on which he has begun his designs.

He reveals to Annatar his hopes, but holds back the breadth and intention. He has more in mind than reversal of the Doom - he has amends to make, if only Gil-galad will allow him the time. He keeps his drawings and notes thus hidden; if Annatar will ploy trust as a game, then Celebrimbor will hold the endgame close to his chest. He dislikes such secrets and schemes, but his father taught him well. He can meet manipulation with manipulation at need.

"Híren?"

He puts away his designs, hoping that the servant has come with his dinner, but Erestor, quite unencumbered by foodstuffs, stands in the doorway. "Yes?"

"An emissary from Forlond has just arrived."

"You may send him in." He expects Elrond, who is increasingly trusted by Gil-galad and has even taken the place at his right hand that Celebrimbor once refused. His visitor, however, is the King's Sergeant-at-Arms.

"Hîr Celebrimbor!" Moebeth greets him, bowing. "I trust that I find you in good spirits."

The elf's pleasantry and good-natured smile seem strangely out of place; surely, Gil-galad has sent Moebeth for but one purpose.

"I am well enough. What message do you bring?"

"The High King desires to speak with you personally regarding a matter of great importance. He requests that you return with me to Forlond."

"And if I refuse?"

Moebeth's smile disappears. "Then I am to take you."

* * *

(1) _Entassë caita nassë_ (Q)  
'Therein lies the rub' (the eminent scholar Rúmil has obviously prefigured Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ ). Construction: _entassë_ , locative case of _enta_ , that yonder; _caita_ , 3rd person singular of _caita-_ , to lie; _nassë_ , thorn or spike (this was the nearest I could find to 'rub' in Quenya).


	14. Forlond, SA 1325

He hears the quiet click of the latch and its catch as the door shuts again. Celebrimbor covers him, his touch gentle, his kisses reverent. He responds without thought, though his desire comes as much from fëa as hroa.

A dab of wetness falls on his cheek. They lie still one within the other, a physical connection from which he is loath to disengage himself, to hurry their separation. Celebrimbor's tears come not from contrition but regret. Underneath the familiar cinnamon heat, Gil-galad smells the stink of _him_.

* * *

At the appointed hour, Celebrimbor comes to his study. Gil-galad puts aside the letter from Hadhodrond. Staring without comprehension at the Dwarven-king's careful tengwar, he has rehearsed this interview a dozen times. Now he has Celebrimbor in front of him, however, he finds the setting too formal, his language too officious. He leaves his chair and goes to the window to stare blankly at the gardens as all words fall away.

Birds are nesting again in the deep recess of the window well. He once kept track of the generations, noting in a diary the meanest differences in feather and habit. 'A bird is a bird,' he thinks now.

"Why did you come to me?" The question is out before he knows that he has asked it.

"Why did you bring me here, as your prisoner?"

"I would have wished that you had come willingly, because I asked it of you."

"I would have wished that you had received me into your rooms, as your lover."

"I did not know if you would come."

"What you do not know of me could fill your library."

"No," Gil-galad sighs. "I know you too well." He turns to look at Celebrimbor. "Tyelpë...you do not see what a dangerous pact you make. He offers you what you most desire, but his price is too high!"

"And what is that price? You scarcely met with him. What price did he ask?"

"You have stated that you do not trust him. You must see that there will be a reckoning of accounts."

"You think I am so easily led. Why will you not trust my judgement?"

"Why will you not trust mine? You, who have reassured me of my wisdom countless times, now doubt me."

"Artanáro, I fear you are swayed too much by your heart. Where you once had respect for my craft, you now resent it, and fear it. Do you think that, having done all I hope to do, I will return to Valinor?" Celebrimbor looks at his hands. "I will not sail. I could not leave you."

"You cannot make such a promise, Tyelpë! No Elf can." He bites his lip; the words have tumbled out without thought. Is this why he resents Annatar's presence in Eregion? He turns back to the window and steadies himself against the thick stone wall. He can hear the echo of Círdan's words.

_Trust your instinct, Ereinion._

"If you would but let me tell you of my work - how it could strengthen the Noldor - how it could strengthen _you_. I used to fear that I brought you this...discontent, but you have found unhappiness," Celebrimbor says quietly. "I did not lead you to it. There are powers untapped that can ease the heaviness in your heart."

Oh, such words hold truth, and the wound they leave would make him strike cruelly in his own defence. Yet the diabolical mind works thus, painting a lie with just enough reason to make it seem fair. Annatar has underestimated him. "He spoke of this to you, did he not? He warned you that I would be jealous of your ambition, and fearful of your success."

"He said nothing of the kind," Celebrimbor insists, but his eyes reveal his confusion.

"You are already in thrall to him. What is folly shall seem wise in his words, and what is wise shall seem selfish." He looks directly at Celebrimbor. "I say this to you as I would say to any so caught in his deceit. If you trust me at all, you will send him away."

"Do not ask this of me."

"I am not asking." Gil-galad waits, his breath bated as if the slightest movement might tip the rudder toward one side or the other.

Celebrimbor lowers his head. "No."

His words come easier than he expects. "Go then, if that is your choice. But do not expect to return."

* * *

The scrollwork of the tester, carved by an elf of Ossiriand who had long ago gone east with Oropher, still confounds him in the long, sleepless stretches of the night. He retires later and, if he sleeps at all, awakens earlier, and his dreamsleep meanders through a landscape of molten skies over creatures who swarm like ants, piling black rock ever higher. He wakes with the consciousness of shadowy movement and the memory of red pools ringed with black like poisoned sores. Before he had sent Elrond to Tharbad, ostensibly to stand as a bulwark against Annatar's encroachment, he had inquired whether some draught might bring more restful sleep.

"There are some infusions useful to those who suffer from grief or injury, but none for general wakefulness. If I may be frank, you do not sleep because you do not rest."

"If I could sleep, I would have rest," he had snapped, though he saw Elrond's meaning, and had made no more enquiries.

A low, but urgent knock at his door startles him. He raises himself on one elbow. "Yes?"

Moebeth enters, his smart colours in disarray. Evidently, he too had been roused from his bed. "Hîr Celebrimbor wishes to depart. Is that your will?"

"He has leave to go," Gil-galad says tiredly. He feels spent, as if the fëa that animates him has sought a less turbulent home. He can summon neither grief nor sorrow nor anger. He can think only of his growing dread at Annatar's unshakeable hold and of the weary grey of waking nights that blend into bleak mornings.

* * *

His sister had been fond of flowers, and tended a little garden upon Tol Sirion. She had mourned it greatly in the caves of Finrod - Nargothrond had not been kind to Finduilas. Gil-galad has heard that her gardens bloomed once again after Lúthien cast Sauron from the isle. He has not Finduilas' way with flowers, but the gardens bring him some rest, as nothing else can of late. After breakfast, he wraps himself in a light cloak against the morning's chill and leaves the palace.

In the rose garden, an elf leans forward to inhale the scent of a flower, her fingers curled under its petals to bring it close.

"Hirilen," he greets her, with a courtly bow of his head.

"The roses are uncommonly sweet this year, do you not think?" says Thilia, turning to him.

"I think they always smell sweet when they first come into their fullness. What is long awaited often seems all the more precious."

She frowns. "But one is not always deceived in such matters. What has been out of reach may bring true reward to those who wait." After a moment of hesitation, she says, "You have not responded to my invitation to our betrothal ceremony."

In resignation, he offers his arm to her; this talk is long overdue. "You put me in a difficult position. My presence would seem to lend approval."

"And you do not."

He ducks his head in admission. "I cannot enforce the Laws-."

"The Laws have made you unhappy, and therefore you do not see why they should not make others so."

He does not see her meaning - Celebrimbor's inconstancy is no fault of the Laws. "You overstep yourself."

"I do not say this in bitterness, Gil-galad. I once loved you very much, and I wish you no ill. But you must see that the Laws were made for a people who knew neither death nor war." She slips her arm from his and stops. "Do you know what happens in Valinor to those left behind when bonded mates are lost, to accident or folly? They fade. They give up their fëar and join their spouses until both are restored to bodily form. That is not an option for us, we who survived the Elder Days and remain on these shores. We are too strong. We lost everything - our mothers and fathers, my brother, your sister - and still, we did not seek healing in the Blessed Realm when it was offered to us. We did not fade, but found hope and purpose in the building of a new realm."

"But do you not see how it must end? What is the fate of Egalmoth? What shall become of your bond, should you go into the West?"

She takes his arm again and they continue along the path. "At present, I fear more that Elemmakil will join Egalmoth in Mandos, along with my children, should I have them. I am no fool, Gil-galad. I well understand that you encourage marriage so that we will provide you with sons to send off to war."

"It is not my intent-."

"You are a good king. I know you will not lead us into war except at the last peril. But war comes, just the same. Some already think to go West, but as for me, I will defend the bliss of these shores or so perish."

Her spirited words cannot help but make him smile. He envies Elemmakil a little.

"I am sorry," she continues, "that love has not brought you all that you desire. You endure, and think little of asking others to do the same. It is presumptuous of me to ask you to question your faith." With a squeeze of his hand, she says, "It will suffice to have your good wishes."

"Those, you have," he says warmly, though a shadow seems to fall as she leaves him on the path. A formidable queen and mother to his heir she would have been. Her certainty and steadfastness only remind him of what he finds lacking in Celebrimbor.

The better part of the morning he gives to the agenda for the King's Council. His desk overflows with letters to answer and petitions to consider, and from time to time, he glances at the work guiltily. His father's chief aide, loyal Guilin, has been most helpful, but Gil-galad finds it difficult to delegate. The older elf chafes at his tight control, for Arothir had left nearly everything to him, and Gil-galad has had to reassure him that it is not a matter of trust. Though he cannot say as much to Guilin, in truth, he misses Elrond's way of knowing his mind without need for words.

After a dinner hastily consumed between modifications to the tariff to be proposed and the sorting of letters, he takes up his station by the window of the meeting hall.

Arphenion rises, leaving his reports on the table. "I have just come from the armoury and have learnt that a new difficulty has arisen. The Dwarven caravans from the Ered Mithrin are under attack again, and this time, it is iron that is wanted."

Gil-galad grinds his teeth - why had Arphenion not informed him of this prior to the meeting? He should have taken time to read the letter from Hadhodrond, but still, the Captain knows well enough that he reports to the King, not to the Council.

"The Armourers' Guild in Ost-in-Edhil blames this for their inability to fill orders," Arphenion continues, "but I suspect some mischief at work, also."

"Annatar," Gildor says flatly.

"Why is he permitted to remain in the city?"

Gil-galad turns to look at Elemmakil. "If you have a suggestion as to how we are to remove him, I will hear it. I am not Lúthien, and I have no hound of Valinor with whom to do battle with a Maia."

"It seems to me that you have more influence in the matter. He would not remain thither without the hosting of the jewel-smiths."

"You are mistaken." He holds Elemmakil's gaze until the hardness fades and is replaced by something else - jealousy, perhaps? Is it his fate to be continually at odds with this elf?

"Perhaps it would not be so unwise to act first," Gildor muses. "He could not resist an entire host."

"I fear he would only flee into the East and summon an army against us." He has other concerns, but he does not yet wish to speak of them before the Council.

As has become too usual, the meeting adjourns with the problem of Annatar still unsolved. He hails Elemmakil as the Council departs; perhaps he can at least make peace with this prickly elf.

"Tauren?"

He sits, hoping to appear less imposing. "I am sorry if I have given you reason to distrust me."

Elemmakil's hard features melt into pained confusion. "I do not know if I should be jealous of your interference or resentful, and I am blind as to the reason for your dislike of me."

"It must seem that way." He looks at Elemmakil. "Do not think I disregard all you have tried to do for the Gondolindrim. Rather, I am glad to have the advice of one who speaks for them. Yet, as High King, I must consider the interests of all my people - yes, even those who followed Fëanor."

"And what interest is Hiril Thilia to all your people, Tauren?"

"Can I not impart such wisdom as I have upon my subjects?"

Elemmakil's mouth sets in a firm line. "Perhaps in such uncertain times, you now regret that you have no heir."

"Let us be plain," Gil-galad says tiredly. This, he thinks, is the reason for his difficult dealings with Elemmakil. "If you think I have discouraged your betrothal because I want her for myself, you need only ask the lady about her feelings on the subject."

"I trust the lady. I am not so sure of _your_ feelings."

"Then let me be still plainer: I did not take her to wife because I had no heart to give her - that already belonged to another. My concern now is that having been fortunate not to bind herself to me, she makes an equally futile match. Why must she be content with half of another's love?"

"Why must you quantify love? The heart need not split itself in two - it is large enough to hold love for more than one."

"The Laws would say otherwise. That is not-." He stops, feeling blind to what is patently apparent. "That is not the way of love among Elves," he finishes quietly. He lays his hands flat on the table, seeking a ballast, and murmurs his leave to Elemmakil. Faith has for him become a lifeline against despair, growing more rigid as all around him loses firmness. To abandon his beliefs - to abandon Truth, as he has received it, would be to abandon _estel_ , hope against reason.

* * *

"If you think that Dorwinion will excuse your failure to confide in me, you are quite mistaken." He pushes aside the remains of his supper and looks at the Captain of the Guard with cold eyes.

Arphenion, undaunted, takes a seat and produces a corkscrew from somewhere on his person. "Good wine will excuse any slight, even one confined to a king's imagination." He uncorks the wine and pours liberal portions for each of them. "It was not my intention to spring that upon you. I had truly just learnt of it myself."

"Nonetheless, it was not a matter that needed the Council's immediate attention. Indeed, they had no suggestions of any help to us."

"On the contrary. Gildor is right. We now have reason to take action against Annatar."

"We have only our suspicions," he corrects Arphenion. "You once questioned my wisdom in sending him away. Why are you now so eager to go to war?"

Arphenion looks at him sideways, as if to invite confidence. "You have long suspected that Annatar and the Shadow are the same. If he is interfering with the armourers, then he already prepares for war."

"And what would we do with him, should we capture him? Even if we could force him to give up his fana, we cannot do so for mere suspicion."

"Then we exile him to the East."

"Wherein he gathers an army, as we have already discussed."

"You are not being candid with me."

"I do not trust you," Gil-galad says flatly.

Arphenion leans close. "It is unavoidable, this war. You know this. Why do you hesitate?"

Arphenion tests him - he wants to know whether he has the courage of previous kings or the caution of his father. Yet courage, Gil-galad knows, is not enough. One must have the strength to resist those with more courage than wisdom.

He will do nothing. He _can_ do nothing; his arms are pinned to his sides. "I am not sure of the loyalties of Ost-in-Edhil," he admits. "What if they take up defence of Annatar?"

"And another Kinslaying result? Tell me, what will you do should Celebrimbor be persuaded to challenge your place as High King?"

"I should ask that question of you."

Arphenion laughs. "I speak hypothetically, of course."

Gil-galad examines his glass. "Hypothetical or no, I am least worried by that possibility. Lest Annatar gain extraordinary influence over his will, he simply would not want it. Galadriel, yes. Not Celebrimbor."

"You think she is at risk, then."

"No." He sits forward. "No, I think she speaks truly of her distrust of Annatar, and by all reports, she is immune to his attempts to woo her favour. I do not know why she has permitted him to remain. That part, I cannot piece out."

"No," Arphenion says thoughtfully. Gil-galad glances at his face, but sees no sarcasm. "We are missing a piece of the puzzle. What exactly are they doing in Eregion? What did Celebrimbor tell you?"

"I did not ask."

Arphenion frowns. "That was a mistake."

"I know it." He had allowed his heart to lead his head. He had feared persuasion, that Celebrimbor would sway him as Annatar could not.

"What do you intend to tell Númenor?"

"I shall inform them that I have a city in rebellion and that I am incapable of governing my own people," he snaps. "What do you expect me to say? _'A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is in vain.'_ " (1)

"You are exceptionally maudlin this night," Arphenion laughs.

Gil-galad begins to feel the wine in his veins; it has made him careless with his tongue. Arphenion is no friend to him - he is a necessity, but a dangerous one. He drains the last of his wine, sets the glass down and stands up carefully. "Tomorrow, you will speak to Elemmakil about the need for armour. His craftsfolk will not like it, but they are quite capable of forging weaponry. Cancel such orders as remain unfilled by the Armourers' Guild. I will not have our army held to ransom by Annatar."

* * *

Elwandor takes the clasp from his hair and lays it in its box. Gil-galad stares at the box while the valet untwines and combs his hair. Odd, how a gift takes on the symbolism of the giver, and becomes impossible to discard or replace, no matter how ambivalent be one's feelings toward the giver.

On his dressing table lies a message, neatly folded.

"It is early yet. Do you want your tea?"

"I think I will do without tonight. You may retire."

Elwandor takes the washing and leaves, his brows gathered in a frown of disapproval.

Gil-galad goes to the cellaret and pours a glass of strong rye. Neither the long years of separation nor patience for their passage have undone him; rather, the simple living of each day has finally wearied him. With a bracing swallow of the rye, he picks up the message.

> _Neither of us expected to be the last scions of our Houses, but so we are, and we are left with all their failings and expectations. Yet, here we find ourselves at odds - the ghosts of the past haunt you as they do me. I will not bring you to ruin, Artanáro - you must believe this._
> 
> _Nor do I give up hope that we might be reconciled, and our parting be but misunderstanding. When despair and guilt paralysed me, you gave me strength. In that, I was trapped, and bound to you though I did not want it, and feared you would be tainted by it. Yet without it, I would feel as if one side of me were left rough. This at least, I hope you will understand._

If the letter is meant to bring comfort, it fails. Despite his last words to Celebrimbor, he cannot comprehend permanence - a separation to last the untold Ages. He imagines that it would be like peeling away a layer of skin. Would it hurt? Would it bleed?

He loses courage - better to leave the wound alone. It will soon be but a scar, painful only in memory.

* * *

(1) _'A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is in vain.'  
_ (ref _The Silmarillion_ , 'Of the Return of the Noldor' p 128 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)


	15. Eregion SA 1590

He blots the letter and folds it. It will return, its seal unbroken, but he stubbornly persists - Gil-galad cannot fault him for this, at least. What divides them now is not Annatar, though Gil-galad will not understand this. As Celebrimbor goes about his work, he more often thinks of Narvi with regret.

Still, a sadness comes over him at the oddest moments, when he longs for the unexpected caress of deep affection, the quiet pleasure of breakfast shared with a beloved, the soothing habit of stroking silken locks as he travels to his dreamworld. The most poignant memories are founded not in great moments, but in between them.

"Two might love, and yet be ill suited to one another," Annatar has said. Celebrimbor is, before all, an artist.

* * *

"This is a matter for Hiril Galadriel. I do not concern myself with tariffs." He glowers at the elf-lords. "Why do you bring this to me?"

"We hoped you would join with us," Adlain explains.

"That the Gwaith-i-Mírdain would spurn the High King's tax collectors? We will not. We have an army to maintain, and roads to be kept safe."

"We have an army foisted upon us, led by an elf who is not of our people," Hellar says. "That army could be turned against us, híren."

"You have no reason to believe that it will be so."

"No reason save Annatar's warning."

He leans against the mantle, dismayed. This is what Gil-galad has foreseen, what Celebrimbor has promised he will not allow. "You swore loyalty to Taur Gil-galad - such words are treasonous in your mouths."

"He rewards our loyalty by treating us as vassalage to enrich his coffers," Hellar insists stonily.

With a significant look at his companions, Adlain leans forward. "We in no way intend treason. Yet, we are concerned. We hear that the High King grows overly suspicious."

With a prick of anxiety, Celebrimbor realises that the elf-lords' concerns might not be entirely unfounded. "Who tells you this? Annatar? Perhaps he is the one who has become overly suspicious."

"Annatar has warned us of this, yes - but we have heard the same from another source, one very much in the High King's confidence," Hellar says.

Arphenion. The traitor can be no one else; all others within Gil-galad's small circle of trust would slit their own throats before they would betray him.

"This is easily solved," Methel speaks for the first time, forcing Celebrimbor's attention back to the trouble at hand. "We want control of the garrisons here and at Tharbad, and the right to oversee passage on the East-West road and the road to Tharbad. There should be no need, then, for Forlond to collect tax from us."

"You forget that most of the troops come from Forlond - they will not transfer their allegiance. Do you intend to raise an army of your own? By all means, you may try it, but you will divide the city."

Hellar rises to his feet. "We accomplish nothing here."

Celebrimbor turns to Adlain in desperation. "We are craftsfolk, not warriors. If forced to choose between the High King's protection and your sword, how many would cleave to you?"

Adlain looks at the other lords, eyebrows raised. Hellar purses his lips in a grimace. Methel shrugs. "They put down their tools and took up arms once before, híren. They will do so again, if they are threatened."

"It shall not come to that," Celebrimbor promises, though he feels less certain than his words imply. "However, I suggest you render what is due to Forlond."

Leaving Erestor to see his visitors out, Celebrimbor stares into the grate, following the flicker and leap of the fire without seeing it. He knows nothing of Gil-galad's mood - if only he would return his letters! His silence only lends credence to Annatar. Though moved at times by anger, the Maia's words appeal, for they do not entirely lack reason. Celebrimbor has let this go too long; beguiled by Annatar's instruction and the great works of the Mírdain, he has forgotten his purpose.

They had begun, some six dozen years ago, to unravel the mysteries of Aulë, to call into metal and gemstone properties reserved to living things. Rings of Power, Annatar called them.

"Such rings would gift men with longer lives, that they might gather the wisdom of the years, and so lead their people without the short sight of mortality. And when it seems good to them, they will join their fathers in death, and the rings shall pass to the next leaders of Men," Annatar had explained.

The Mírdain had forged the rings, taking such care that no rings had ever been so well made. Still, they were rings, of no greater use than were others. The smiths had laid them in Annatar's great palm and looked at one another in confusion. What now?

Annatar had loosed his tongue in a language that made the elves cringe. A red glow had come over the rings as swift flame engraved Annatar's harsh words in the most ancient Tengwar of Fëanor. What had been inert metal then writhed with a life of its own, or so it had seemed. (1)

He has searched every book and scroll in his possession, but this strange language of Annatar remains beyond Celebrimbor's understanding. Similar words spoken over rings intended for the Dwarves fail to solve the riddle. He is reluctant to reveal anything of their work to an outsider, yet clearly, the making of additional rings hinges upon a similar charm. Impatience having won over discretion, he copies the script to a slip of foolscap and sets out to see the one elf who might have lore enough to make sense of them.

"What tongue of Morgoth is that?" Pengolodh asks, taking his hands from his ears.

"I hoped you might tell me."

"It is none that I have ever heard," Pengolodh says, scurrying to move books that his guest might sit. "Yet, neither is it entirely strange. What I know of Valarin is only what you have taught me and what we might divine from Khuzdûl , yet I do not think this cursed tongue is entirely dissimilar."

"Perhaps it is a dialect?" Celebrimbor says doubtfully. He unfolds the foolscap over an open volume of Falathrin fairy tales, and together, the two elves study the lines.

> _Ombi kuzddurbagu gundum-ishi  
> _ _Nugu gurunkilu bard gurutu_ (2)

"See here, this word," Pengolodh points to _bard_ , "is similar enough to the Eldarin root of 'doom'. And _nugu_ must come from the Valarin for 'nine'." (3)

"Do you suppose that _kuzd_ is the Valarin word for 'Dwarf'?"

Pengolodh nods and frowns. "I have heard this word _durbagu_ before. It was used by Boldog, the Orc captain, according to the tales of those who lived to recall the Nirnaeth. Glorfindel thought it meant 'ruler' or 'king'."

In such a way, they arrive at a plausible translation.

"But who made this language, and why? Why would one who calls himself an Elf-friend use a word of Orc-speech?" Pengolodh questions.

"Perhaps the Orcs took it from elsewhere - a tongue of Men, maybe."

"That may be so." Pengolodh tosses aside the paper and jumps to his feet. "You will have supper with me, I hope?"

"Gladly."

They retire to the slightly less cluttered dining room (the table being only half given over to books) and Pengolodh calls upon a servant to bring the soup. "I have just finished a history of the people of Hithlum following the Nirnaeth. I am having it copied now - the High King is quite impatient for it."

"May I ask your opinion?"

Pengolodh smiles. "Am I to refuse my lord?"

"You are free to do so. It concerns Gil-galad." He pauses at the return of the serving maid with the soup. When they are once again alone, he continues, "Is it your perception that he has grown overly cautious and distrustful?"

"We do not discuss Annatar - save in purely historical terms - if that is what you wish to know. Our correspondence does not concern present matters - the High King is quite aware that much of what may be revealed in histories must be kept secret in this day."

"It is not precisely Annatar with whom I am concerned." He pretends great interest in his soup while he works out the question. "Is he less forthcoming than you have known him to be?"

"I think he is uneasy," Pengolodh says. "I think you are, too, if you will allow me such impertinence. This quarrel does neither of you good."

"It is less a quarrel than stubbornness."

Pengolodh looks at him shrewdly. "You have a penchant for grand gestures, Celebrimbor. I know not what devilry the Mírdain do, but I know you. You seek that one great work that will save you. You, of all elves, should know that no jewel should be valued above life and love."

Celebrimbor finishes his soup and reaches for the wine. "But what if a jewel can give us such things as it is good to desire?"

"Then I would say that such a jewel derives its power from the Ainur." Pengolodh sits back and gives him a kindly look. "Our talent lies in beauty - in our own radiance and in our ability to create beautiful things."

"Yet, the ability to heal Arda resides within us, too."

"Indeed, but what need have we, then, of a jewel with such powers? What you do goes beyond what is given to us - do not deny it!" Pengolodh waves his hand impatiently at Celebrimbor. "I think," he adds, "you will find that a simple sacrifice for love is all the penance needed to put your heart at rest."

_He will save you, if you will let him._

So Elrond had once said. Yet, who will save the King? Gil-galad needs no relief from the Doom; he is still young. He has no desire to recreate Valinor - he has never known the Blessed Realm. His torments are entirely bound by Ennor, in its past and in its future. So very nearly is it within Celebrimbor's ability to lighten that burden, to ease the weight of Time and weariness under which the Noldor labour. If such things can be done, Celebrimbor does not understand why they should be forbidden to him.

He holds his horse to a sedate pace on his return to Bar-i-Mírdain. He sees now that the ten-syllable length of the lines is no coincidence; they are meant to form a verse. The first line, then, should refer to the first-born of the peoples of Arda. His feet have come to the precipice; nearly within his grasp is the skill to surpass all Elves who have come before him, save Fëanor.

* * *

"Gold has its own special property - an appeal beyond beauty or rarity. Men desire it greatly, as do Dwarves." Annatar waves his hand, and the molten gold forms twenty rings, already hardened and cool to the touch. "A symbol of our faith in one another," he calls them, giving one to each of the nineteen Mírdain, and the last to himself.

Celebrimbor lingers in the forge after the other smiths have gone. "Why rings? Why not jewels, or other ornaments?"

"Rings are not worn simply for adornment, as one might wear a necklace. They signify our deepest allegiances. In them, we represent the desires and gifts we most cherish."

To Men, the Nine would give the gift of time; to Dwarves, the Seven would give the gift of Mahal's secrets hidden beneath ground. "Yet, to draw such things as we most desire-."

"The secret is within Arda itself. One draws from Arda what is wanted and brings it to bear on what is needful."

Suddenly, he understands. In the starry firmament had Elves first seen beauty; in the stars rests their hope. One ring would recreate the bliss of Valinor. One would heal the hurts of Arda. One would lighten a load too heavy for bearing. All would slow the decay and fading of Time. So caught up is he in his thoughts, he hardly hears Annatar's next words.

"I will be away for some time. I regret it, for I think you are nearly ready to work on your own, and I leave you waiting on me with the last rings - those I intend to give to the Elves - yet to forge. It cannot be helped, however."

He makes an appropriate sound of dismay. Annatar, smug in the jewel-smiths' devotion to him, seems unaware of his pretence. Celebrimbor does not imagine that perhaps Annatar has reason to be smug.

* * *

 _"Neldë cormar i Eldaranin nu Elenarda!"_ (4)

He hisses with frustration. With the help of those he trusts most, and who have the greatest skill, he has finished the Three. Every part of the forging has been faithful, yet his words fail to bring the rings to life.

"Perhaps," Enerdhil suggests, "they are not spoken rightly."

He considers this. Could the power lie in that terrible language of Annatar? Might it be possible to complete the verse only as Annatar had spoken the other lines? He recoils at this: _What tongue of Morgoth is that?_

The days draw on, and no other solution presents itself. Heady with success so nearly at hand, his better sense fails him. Grasping the Three in his hand, he speaks.

 _"Shre nazg golugranu kilmi-nudu!"_ (5)

* * *

**SA 1600**

"I feared you would not have the strength."

"I feared the same for you."

Galadriel leads him up to the house and into the parlour. "I think you need this," she says, pouring a small measure from a silver flask.

He samples the drink - it is miruvor, not of the sort made by the Exiles, but the very mead of Valinor. It brings warmth to him, fleeting though it may be.

For a moment, all things of which he had ever dreamed had passed through his mind: knowledge Aulë had given to none but his most skilled Maiar; gems only the Silmarilli could surpass; cities of art and learning to rival Tirion. Yet, he had seen through the mirror into darkest night. He had looked into the glowing eyes of the wolf and had known it; he had recognised the teats on which he had fed; had met the beast that had grown inside him.

"I will not say that I was suspicious from the start, for that will bring you little comfort."

He grimaces. "You were suspicious of him, indeed, but you permitted him to remain here, and you needed little persuasion to take the ring. You have a way of remembering the past, Galadriel, as it suits you, but you and I know the truth." (6)

"You are welcome to see it as you please, but history will bear me out." In her brisk way, she changes the subject. "He will coming for them."

"Yes."

"We should destroy them."

"Yes." He looks at her boldly, challenging her to be the first.

Her eyes drop. "I can protect Nenya. The other two must go to Forlindon."

He must tell Gil-galad that he has betrayed him to an enemy who has sought him since he was a child. Sauron had known, even then. "There are others - meant for Men and Dwarves, and some lesser rings."

Galadriel sits for a moment in thought. "Keep them here. We might gain a measure of time for our cousin if Sauron believes that the Three might also be found in Eregion."

All at once, Celebrimbor recalls that another holds one of the rings. He finds his feet. "I have an errand to which I need attend before I leave for Forlond."

"You cannot delay this, Celebrimbor. He must be told at once."

"What will it signify, should I leave now or in a fortnight? What strength have the Elves, that we might stand against him?"

She gives no answer, and he does not wait for it.

* * *

Durin receives him with concern. "You are not well, Celebrimbor."

Celebrimbor lets out his breath in relief. "You do not wear the ring I gave to you." (7)

"Do not think your gift was unappreciated. Yet, we have riches in abundance here, and it would be foolish to seek what we do not yet need - any of our mining folk will tell you of the ills that wait where one has delved too far. Mahal was not the only one to leave surprises hidden in the deeps.

"But what so worries you," Durin continues, "that you arrive in haste, looking as if you have seen a shade?"

What can Celebrimbor tell him? Of the forging of the One, and the Elves' part in it, his King must be first to know. "Ill tidings have come to me," he says at length. "You will understand that I cannot speak without my lord's permission."

Durin frowns. "If this matter concerns the Dwarves-."

"My lord will not keep it from you. He values your friendship."

"Gil-galad is as unsentimental as a Dwarf," Durin snorts. "He will do what is best. Whether or not that is best for the Dwarves, we shall see."

* * *

He hides the six of Seven and the Nine in a dern within the frame of the great Dwarven bedstead. He is less careful with the nineteen rings of the Mírdain - the elves had removed them at once and come to him, their faces pale with shame and fear. The rings have proved less binding than Annatar - Sauron - expected them to be. Nestled in their boxes, Narya and Vilya - brilliant, beautiful and innocent - slip into a pouch around his neck.

At the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, four guards await him under the deep blue sky of near-dawn. Celeborn approaches. "You are still well ahead of his servants, but the road holds other perils. Your escort knows you must reach Lindon, even at cost of their lives."

The guards sit motionless upon their mounts, their eyes forward, their faces expressionless. They will follow their orders without question. Celebrimbor swallows. He knows that Celeborn has given such orders without feeling - he thinks only of what must be done. Gil-galad will act likewise; such is the mark of those chosen to lead. The House of Fëanor is forever dispossessed with reason.

 _"Elbereth an edraith le."_ (8)

 _Elbereth save you._ In Celeborn's eyes, Celebrimbor reads not accusation but pity. He cringes in shame at this small understanding; he surely does not deserve it, least of all from a Sinda.

A coldness has been growing inside of him, rattling his very bones. He cannot guess what Gil-galad will do, but he can feel the hurt already, as if his own body contracts with it. He has not loved enough, but it would be better if he had never loved at all.

As the party passes through the gates, Celebrimbor secures his cloak more tightly; is it his imagination, or does the air already have a scent of snow? "Onward, now, and swiftly," he orders. The winter of the Noldor will come too soon.

* * *

(1) ...swift flame engraved Annatar's harsh words in the most ancient Tengwar of Fëanor.  
There is no evidence, to my knowledge, that the other rings carried inscriptions. With regard to the writing that appears on the One Ring, Gandalf says, _'The letters are Elvish, of an ancient mode.'_ (ref _LOTR_ , Book 1 Ch II p 49 pub Houghton Mifflin) Of course, to Frodo, TA 2000 would be 'ancient', so that gives us little clue as to the actual form of the writing. In Appendix E, however, Tolkien writes, _The original Fëanorian system also possessed a grade with extended stems, both above and below the line. These usually represented aspirated consonants... ._ (ref _Ibid_ , App E p 1094) Such aspirated consonants are not used in Quenya or Sindarin, and so the extended stems fell out of use. The Black Speech does have aspirated consonants, and hence, we find the extended stems in the Ring inscription.

(2) _Ombi kuzddurbagu gundum-ishi  
_ _Nugu gurunkilu bard gurutu_ (Black Speech)  
(ref _Fellowship of the Ring_ film soundtrack, 'The Treason of Isengard', translated by David Salo) Most of these lyrics are better characterised as 'Neo-Black Speech', as Tolkien did not leave us with enough words for a proper translation of the Ring Rhyme (with the exception of the portion he translated himself). The discussion between Celebrimbor and Pengolodh owes an enormous debt to Ryszard Derdzinski's analysis of Tolkien's languages used in the films. It can be found at the _Fellowship of the Word-smiths_ website.  
In Appendix F, we are told that the Black Speech was made by Sauron during the Second Age, but it seems plausible that he might have used some words in common use at Angband. (ref _LOTR_ , 'Appendix F' p 1105 pub Houghton Mifflin) The link between Valarin and the Black Speech is, I believe, only hypothesised, but we have strong evidence. Helge Fauskanger, in 'Orkish and the Black Speech', has observed the similarity between Valarin _naškâd_ and the Black Speech _nazg_ , 'ring'. (ref _Ardalambion_ website) The connexion between Valarin and Khuzdûl is noted in 'Quendi and Eldar', where Tolkien suggests that Aulë would have used his native tongue in the making of the language of the Dwarves. (ref _The War of the Jewels_ , 'Quendi and Eldar' p 402 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(3) And _nugu_ must come from the Valarin for 'nine'.  
This is my own nonsense - Salo probably derived it from the Eldarin root for 'nine', _NÉTER-_ , and applied what is known of Khuzdûl, Valarin and Black Speech phonology to it.

(4) _Neldë cormar i Eldaranin nu Elenarda!_ (Q)  
'Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky' - from _neldë_ , 'three'; _cormar_ , 'rings'; _i Eldaranin_ , 'the Elven-kings' (composed from _Elda_ , 'Elven' and _aranin_ , dative case of 'kings' after the fashion of _Eldamar_ , 'Elven-home'); _nu_ , 'under'; _Elenarda_ , 'star-kingdom' (this is a deliberate mistranslation of 'sky').

(5) _Shre nazg golugranu kilmi-nudu!_ (Black Speech)  
(ref _Fellowship of the Ring_ film soundtrack, 'The Treason of Isengard', translated by David Salo)

(6) You have a way of remembering the past, Galadriel, as it suits you...  
The external explanation for Galadriel's many histories lies in Tolkien himself. As he grew more religious later in life, he was less tolerant of conceived imperfections in his beloved Elves. He rewrote Galadriel's story several times to exculpate her in the flight of the Noldor and the events in Eregion. For the internal explanation, I've imagined that Galadriel herself rewrote her history. As the years passed and few could recall the Elder Days, who was to argue with her? Not Celeborn, certainly (though I'd guess he put his foot down when he was turned into a Teler named Teleporno). I've taken bits from several different anecdotes - the notion that she was wearing Nenya when Sauron revealed himself is within canon (ref _Unfinished Tales_ , 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p 263 pub Ballantine/Del Rey), as is her tolerance of Annatar during his years in Eregion (ref _Ibid_ , p 248). It might be more faithful to the text to choose one story and stick with it, but all versions in some way contradict _LOTR_.

(7) You do not wear the ring I gave to you.  
 _It was believed by the Dwarves of Durin's Folk to be the first of the Seven that was forged; and they say that it was given to the King of Khazad-dûm, Durin III, by the Elven-smiths themselves and not by Sauron._ (ref _LOTR_ , Appendix A p 1050 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(8) _Elbereth an edraith le_ (S)  
Elbereth save you, lit. 'Elbereth (be) for (the) saving (of) you', adapted from Gandalf's fire spell, _'Naur an edraith ammen!'_ (ref _LOTR_ , Book 2 Ch III p 291 pub Houghton Mifflin)


	16. Forlond SA 1600 - Part I

Celebrimbor speaks with the voice of the dead, of one who has so utterly betrayed his trust that he cannot continue to live with honour.

"You were right to fear Annatar - more than you know."

Gil-galad waits. He has learnt such patience from Círdan; some tales cannot be hurried.

"I was deceived, but willingly so." From a pouch hung from his neck, Celebrimbor takes two wooden boxes. "Do not put them on."

Gil-galad opens the first box. The ring is beautiful, clearly Celebrimbor's work. Is it his imagination, or does the sapphire glow more brilliantly than other stones of its kind? It reflects more light than the pre-dawn candlelight of his chambers should give. He opens the second. Immediately, he recognises the power nestled in the silk lining of the box.

"It is my gift to you," Celebrimbor says, his mouth curled in bitterness. "I knew how it must work, but it needed a power beyond my own. And though I will tell you I knew not what I did, in my heart, I was not so blind."

Gil-galad closes the box. More than the strongest wine, the ring calls to him.

"Galadriel holds the third. There are others, of no consequence to the Elves. But Annatar has made another, and it binds all of them - even the Three, which he did not touch."

"Binds them? How?"

"Those who wear the rings become enslaved to them, and ultimately enslaved to the One."

"So, that was Annatar's intention - to trap us with what we desired most."

"The rings will do what they were made to do - but he controls what might seem good to do with them."

"Why, then, have you not destroyed them?"

"Could you?"

Gil-galad looks away. In spite of all he knows to be wise, he wants this ring; it knows its owner. "No."

"There is more."

Does he pluck the name from Celebrimbor's mind or does Narya itself whisper it? His composure gives way and he is sick in the washbasin. He lifts his head and wipes his mouth unsteadily. Celebrimbor's voice, his halting confession and the hypnotic draw of Narya have distracted him from the meaning of it all. "You have betrayed me, as no one else could, to him who has destroyed my House?"

"I did not know him!"

Annatar's most intimate intrusion into his dreams takes vivid form in his mind. Having welcomed Celebrimbor into his bedchamber, he finds himself in a tryst with horror. He can hear Sauron's laughter.

* * *

Well-insulated against pain and cold by _suithuil_ , the strong seaweed liquor of the Falathrim, he walks barefoot along the rocky shores of Mithlond. His ears fill with the pound of the surf, closing them to both the world without and the voice within. As evening beckons, skiffs and draggers glide into the bay under a leaden sky. Their pilots jump lightly to the quay and secure the boats, untroubled by the cold that turns their breath to billows of steam. (1)

He cannot speak. Círdan shows concern in his own subtle way, pressuring him to eat and move and sleep, but does not ask for explanation. Gil-galad cannot recall if he _has_ slept, or what dreams and terrors he may have lived in his sleep. He is not even sure if two days or two dozen have passed.

Fear - true fear that leaves a metallic taste in his mouth - is strange to him. Even in the last days before the War of Wrath, when they stood cornered on Balar awaiting final extinction, he had not known fear. The hopes of his people had not been his alone to bear - even had he sufficient force to challenge Morgoth, he knew it for the losing cause it was, for no Elf should overcome a Vala.

He has so much more to protect, so many more who will count on him to defend them. He does not fear death so much as defeat.

Yet it is the long, slow defeat of his heart that renders the bitterness of suithuil sweet in comparison. Worse than a many-scarred wound, his skin is flayed clean away.

The lamplighter comes as gloom settles over the south bay. The fishing boats never range far, for this season belongs to Ossë and the catch of the day is scant. Fisherwives and daughters now venture forth in grey woollen cloaks to meet the boats. If they pass him along the way, they offer a stolid nod in recognition. The cheerless lack of colour is deceptive; the Falathrim take joy in their lot the Noldor cannot fathom.

In the eastern sky, a black shape takes form. Growing taller against the horizon as it draws nearer, it soon looms over him. His heart beats wildly and from numb fingers the flask of suithuil slips to the ground. He starts at the crash of glass against the rocks. When he looks again, strain as he might, he sees the shape no longer. Had it been delirium brought on by drink, or the long arm of a Maia who finds it all too easy to enter his dreams? His fingers twitch against the small box in a purse tied to his waist; the ring promises comfort. He mourns the broken flask.

* * *

"What can I get you, híren?" Círdan's manservant puts aside the parsnips he is preparing for dinner and looks up.

"Some tea, that is all."

He sits at the table while the manservant gets his tea.

"You will want a bath before dinner, yes?"

Gil-galad would laugh at the servant's polite yet pointed question if his head were not pounding as if it played host to a forge. By the time he has bathed and combed the tangles from his hair, Círdan awaits him at the dinner table. He worries at his food uncertainly, his stomach in a state of rebellion.

"Tonight, we will talk," Círdan says.

* * *

He tells of Annatar's true identity, of the One Ring that has been made and of Celebrimbor's betrayal. In the cocoon of Círdan's calm, he awaits his next breath.

"What will you do?"

"I do not know yet. Elrond was to question Celebrimbor further." Had he asked Elrond to do this? He must have done so, though he might recite lines from a play, for all he remembers.

"And Celebrimbor?"

He stands and goes to the door. Arms folded, he feels confined in the dining room; his thoughts need more space. "Annatar only told him what he wanted to hear. I had given him hope - he needed no more from me."

"What consumed him was a Doom he had small part in making. Do not confuse that with his heart. I do not think it was a choice he relished."

"Yet, the choice put to him as it was, his heart was more easily sacrificed." Truth looms over the brilliant sunset in the West, a heavy cloud slowly blotting day into darkness. "I cannot forgive him."

"You cannot forgive yourself," Círdan says gently.

"No." He turns away from the window. "A storm is coming."

"Aye, that too," Círdan says. He laces his fingers together thoughtfully. "It is too early yet for a gale, I reckon."

"Is this known to you?"

"Who can say what is known and what is guesswork?"

"Must everything be a riddle?"

"I speak with as much certainty as I might," Círdan says slowly, "but though our fate be woven already, the fate of Men is not."

 _'And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as if with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.'_ (2)

"Indeed, such is the fate of the Noldor. Yet for the younger race, much shall be decided by the Elves. Much rests upon you." (3)

"That is a great comfort," Gil-galad says dryly.

Círdan will have none of it. "You stood against him, when he came to Forlond. Do not underestimate yourself, Ereinion. The Valar have faith in you - that much is known to me."

"Still, I am neatly caught in his net." He reaches into the sleeve of his robes and withdraws one of the two jewel boxes. "I wish for you to keep this safe. It would be unwise for me to hold two of them, and lose both should Sauron reach Forlond."

Círdan takes the ring and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"I fear it would tempt me too much," he admits.

"And the other?"

"Less so. It was not made for one such as me - it is meant to restore an earlier age of bliss." (4)

Círdan puts the ring out of sight. "I once wished dearly to follow Olwë into the Blessed Realm."

"And now?"

"What loss and pain we know in Ennor make its delights that much sweeter. The joy a mariner knows when the Sun at last rises after a storm at sea - I shall never weary of it. You must find a way to see the sunrise, Ereinion. It is not enough to endure."

Celebrimbor. In his heart, Gil-galad longs to forget, as if this betrayal - and all the small hurts come before it - never were. In love's absence, what is left to him but to endure?

* * *

(1) _suithuil_ (S)  
lit. 'draught (of) seaweed'

(2) _And those that endure in Middle-earth...  
_ ( _The Silmarillion_ , 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' p 96 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

(3) "Indeed, such is the fate of the Noldor."  
All of the Elves were subject to fading as a physical phenomenon. In Valinor, such fading of the body was no faster than that of the spirit, which would exist until the end of Arda. In Middle-earth, the body faded as the spirit lost its passion for life. ( _Morgoth's Ring_ , 'Myths Transformed' p 427 pub Houghton Mifflin) Neither of these were a result of the Doom - they were intended by Eru from the start. The speed at which the fading occurred was another matter. _And outside Valinor they tasted bitter grief, and some wasted and waned with sorrow, until they faded from the earth. Such was the measure of their mortality foretold in the Doom of Mandos spoken in Eruman._ ( _Ibid_ , 'The Later Quenta Silmarillion II' p 266) This 'bitter grief' belonged to the Noldor - we know that eventually the Avari and presumably the Sindar did fade ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'The Appendix on Languages' p 79 pub Houghton Mifflin), and some of the Sindar must have suffered from regret and sorrow. For the Noldor, I believe, the difference lay in guilt - unlike the Sindar, they had a fall from grace.

Furthermore, we have some hard evidence that the Sindar did not grow weary as quickly as did the Noldor. Círdan's age is uncertain, but he must have been born before Thingol disappeared, since he was _the leader of those who sought longest for Elwë_. ( _Ibid_ , 'Last Writings' p 386) In 'The Annals of Aman', the date for this is 1130 in Valinorean years. Galadriel, in comparison, was a mere child, born in 1362. ( _Morgoth's Ring_ , pp 83 & 106) In Years of the Sun, this is a difference of 2,000 years. At the time of this story, Galadriel was about 3,500 years old and already felt weary of Middle-earth. Círdan was at least 5,500, and by the Third Age, nearly 8,000 years old. However, he never made use of Narya and surrendered it with no apparent ill effects when Gandalf arrived.

We also have an example from Mirkwood - at very least, Thranduil was nearly 6,000 years old at the War of the Ring, but was apparently quite content in Middle-earth without the Rings needed in the Noldorin strongholds. In the end, the Elves of Lórien were tainted by the long use of Nenya and deserted the land after Galadriel left. In Thranduil's realm, however, _the Silvan Elves remained untroubled_ after the war. ( _LOTR_ , 'Appendix B' p 1069 pub Houghton Mifflin)

(4) "It was not made for one such as me"  
The distribution of the Three is as convoluted as everything else. I've stuck with the version given in _LOTR_ , in which the rings were held originally by Gil-galad, Galadriel and Círdan. ('Appendix B' pp 1059-1060 pub Houghton Mifflin) In 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn', however, we have two variations on the story. In the first, Tolkien states that Gil-galad gave Narya to Círdan when he received it from Celebrimbor, and nothing is said of Vilya. In the second, we are told that Gil-galad gave Vilya to Elrond at the time of the first White Council but kept Narya until he set out to meet Elendil at Amon Sûl. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , pp 249, 251 & 267 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) Gil-galad might have kept Narya - or got rid of it as soon as he could, for the same reason: it _was_ made for him. All three affected the perception of time's passage, but each ring seems to have had some unique properties. Nenya appears to have come closest to emulating Valinor on earth, changing the climate and vegetation of Lórien. Imladris was cold and grey on the day the Fellowship set out, so Vilya could not have been used to alter the environment; rather, it was used to heal both kelvar and olvar. Of Narya's purpose, we have the most detailed description: _'...It will support you in the weariness that you have taken upon yourself. For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill.'_ ( _LOTR_ , 'Appendix B' p 1060) Such a ring would be appropriate for a king whose people were fleeing to Valinor in the face of a growing shadow.


	17. Forlond SA 1600 - Part II

Elrond wipes the ink from his quill and looks long at Celebrimbor. "Well?" he asks after several moments of silence.

"It was you who summoned me."

"Gil-galad told me little, save that I was to question you further on the matter that so upset him yesterday," Elrond says.

And so again, he must tell the tale from beginning to end. Each word feels as if spoken against the wind, forced out with breath scarcely left in him. By the end, he leans forward in his chair, his hands on the desk to support his weight.

"What, exactly, can this Ring do?"

'Quiet!' he would say. 'Let us speak no more of this dread-horror, that we do not make it real.' Yet, it is real, and he has made it so.

"I do - I am not at all certain. It controls the other Rings of Power, and through it, those who wear them." He bites his lip, willing himself to remember again all that he had seen. "It may hold some of his own power, and amplify it, so that the tricks of fear and persuasion he already possessed are made greater."

Elrond pales. "This is a great weapon you have put into his hands."

"I had no part-" _-in the forging of the One_ , he finishes silently. What had Annatar told him, when he had come to Eregion? Had he not said that Celebrimbor's work had inspired him? "That was not my intent."

"It hardly matters, does it? Even for love, you would not follow him but chose to pursue your own selfish glory." Elrond's eyes flash. "Have you any inkling of what you have done?"

He bows his head. "You cannot chastise me more than I do myself."

"That, I believe," Elrond says, rising to his feet. "I am expected in the training yard just now. We will talk more about these Rings later." Outside, in the passageway, Elrond turns to him. "Had you thought less of your own guilt and more of what Gil-galad asked of you, we would not now be in such straits."

_Is it your lover or your craft of which you speak, Tyelperinquar? For one will fall to fire, the other shall live in death._

So had the Lady said to him, long before Annatar had come to Eregion, but he had misunderstood her. In a cold sweat, he leans weakly against the wall. His work will outlive him. What, then, does Varda's prophecy mean for Gil-galad?

* * *

"Keep them shuttered, if you please."

"Yes, híren," the chambermaid says, refastening the shutters. She finishes her work and leaves him once again in gloomy solitude.

He has no heart for the forge, and in the taverns, he sees the faces of those who will soon know him as their betrayer. He takes his exercise in the gardens when Tilion rides high in the sky and his meals in the privacy of his rooms. Condemned, he awaits his final sentence.

Elrond has recalled him to his study twice. The interviews are inevitably torturous; he knows well enough what the Three will do, but he must delve into his memory to describe the Nine and the Seven, for Annatar had deceived him. As for the One, he can only guess at its powers, given what he knows of the Maia.

"If, indeed, the Ring holds the very essence of Morgoth's lieutenant, it is certainly meant for evil purpose. Yet once, he was a Maia of Aulë. He would not destroy without reason. He would have been pleased enough to have the Elves under his control."

He returns from this session and takes to his bed in exhaustion, but even his dreams seek what he must remember and wishes had never been. Here, he looks again with wonder upon Annatar as the Nine and the Seven are transformed; here, this Maia, who has promised to unlock the secrets of Aulë, is again his much-revered teacher. With relief, he wakes to an insistent knock at the door. Rising from his bed, he calls for the knocker to cease and enter.

Arphenion's boy, a pert thing of no more than an ennin, bows and delivers his message.

> _The Captain of the Guard cordially requests the pleasure of  
> _ _your company at supper in his chambers._

"You may tell him that I cordially decline," Celebrimbor says, but he already reconsiders. His own company has become odious to him, and he has business with Arphenion. "On second thought, tell the Captain that I accept."

* * *

"That will be all - for the moment," Arphenion says, when the footman had laid their dinner upon the table.

The boy smiles and takes his leave.

"Is it true that you snatched him from his nanny?"

"As I recall, you were leering at your cousin when he was well shy of Oroden's age." Arphenion takes up his knife. "I gather you have got yourself into some trouble in Eregion - Elrond has been annoyingly secretive about it."

"A pity you do not share that trait."

"It is a pity," Arphenion agrees.

"How is it that you remain at your post? Twice, now, you have plotted against the High King, and we both know he is no fool."

"Are you looking for advice in your present situation? Has Annatar got them all in revolt again - is that why you are here?"

Celebrimbor stabs at his meat. "You have wrought more damage than you know - in your lies they find reason to doubt the High King at a time when he most needs their confidence."

"Then call it fortunate that I only hinted at what I knew to be untrue. I might have told them of his fondness for drink or his nervous disposition," Arphenion smirks. "But come, you are like a dog guarding his master after he has let the fox into the chicken coop."

"Are you still so bitter that you had no part in the defeat of Morgoth? You wanted a war to fight."

"We were too content in the Elder Days. While we gadded about hunting and courting, Morgoth was planning our ruin. You have already made Annatar too comfortable in Eregion."

"Annatar has left Eregion and there shall be no comfort in his return."

Arphenion sits forward, a gleam in his eyes. "Well, this _is_ news."

A game of shells they have been playing, each elf shuffling his secrets even as he tries to uncover those of the other. In truth, Celebrimbor could not have won; without a conscience, his adversary has nothing to hide.

With a cold, thin smile, he lays down his fork and stands. "You will have your war, and we can only hope for help from abroad. Valar save the High King - and all of us."

"You do so look like your father when you grin like that," Arphenion says, draining his glass. "But I trust in the Valar no more than he did. Ennor belongs to the High King, no matter how fervently he might pray to them for relief."

* * *

Three more days pass in self-imposed isolation. He has taken to using the servants' staircase, the better to avoid pretty courtiers and their cheerful pleasantries. By his own doing, these young lords will soon exchange their silk shoes and fine robes for boots and tunics of blue and silver. Even the back stairs prove treacherous, however, for it is here that he comes face to face with the elf he most wants to avoid.

Círdan breaks off conversation with Gil-galad's valet. Neither he nor Celebrimbor is disposed to speak words without need, and so a simple nod suffices for greeting.

"He has returned, then."

"He has."

The ancient eyes take the hard measure of his character, shearing him of all excuse. Naked and shamed, he looks away, unable to bear it. Círdan, not one to relish the pain of another, no matter how well deserved, quickly continues on his way, leaving Celebrimbor alone with the valet.

"He is his child," Elwandor says stiffly.

He thinks of Men and their gift of death with envy; no such escape can an Elf expect from guilt. Wearily, he asks if Elwandor has a message for him.

"The High King summons you to his study after breakfast."

At last, he shall have this done. Even Sauron with his din-horde is preferable to the genteel curiosity of the court. Let his crimes be known, and soon.

* * *

'Maedhros,' he thinks. Time and trouble leave their mark upon the First Born, just as they do upon Men, but less swiftly. When he had last met with Maedhros, so changed had he been that Celebrimbor hardly recognised him. Deep lines of age and weariness had told the tale of loss and regret, and despite his great crimes, Celebrimbor had pitied him.

So the past days have worked change upon Gil-galad: they have cost him his youth.

He stands at the window with a book in hand, seemingly oblivious to Celebrimbor's presence. _O Ñgaurhoth_ reads the title, a depressing choice, all things considered. (1)

"I expected betrayal from Arphenion." Gil-galad snaps the book shut and turns toward him. "He only confirmed what I feared to be true - that Annatar would turn Eregion against me. He counselled me to bring force against Annatar. I could not countenance this, not should it pit my people against yours. I relied on you to see his designs, but even after his intentions were revealed, you allowed him to remain. Which is the greater treason, Tyelpë?"

He cannot breathe, much less speak. Gil-galad's soft voice cuts neatly through to the bone and his eyes know all that his heart would conceal. He is terrifying in such moments.

Gil-galad sits at his desk with a sigh. "Who knows?"

He swallows hard, and forces his lips to move. "The Mírdain, of course. Galadriel and Celeborn. Durin suspects."

"Why?"

"He holds one of the Seven. I had to be certain that he had not been wearing it."

"But he still keeps the ring?"

"I could not see a way to take it from him without explanation. He will not wear it."

"This bodes ill for us -we cannot fight the Dwarves and Sauron together."

"I know Durin," Celebrimbor says quietly. "And once everything is revealed, he will not make use of it."

"No one else?"

"No." Celebrimbor wonders where this is leading. Surely, Gil-galad does not think to keep this a secret.

"Númenor cannot know that we have put such a weapon in Sauron's hands," Gil-galad says flatly. "They will see his fury as a matter for Elves alone. In a few generations, with our people ruined and enslaved, Sauron will turn upon them, but Men do not think so far ahead - they concern themselves only with their own lifetimes."

"He has chosen to reveal himself - that much, you cannot hope to conceal."

"Nor do I intend to conceal it. The Rings, however, are another matter. Already, the White Ships bear many who remember the First Age." His voice trails off as he leaves his chair and returns to the window. "I shall be left with an army as inexperienced as I am."

"Not all will leave. I have told you often enough, they love you. They will see it as cowardice to abandon their king."

"And you?"

He studies Gil-galad's profile, but can read nothing by it. "I will return to Eregion. It is what you want, is it not?"

Gil-galad laughs without humour. "I do not recall that my wants were ever in your consideration. Why should they be so, now?

"It was not my intent to bring you pain."

"I gave you warning and you heeded it not. I gave you order and you defied me. How can I not see intent in all that you have done?"

"I am sorry."

"Sorry. Yes, I imagine that you are."

The question spills out before he can stop his tongue. "Do you regret it? All of it?"

Gil-galad closes his eyes. The air hangs still, suspending even the dust that falls in a ray of sunlight from the window. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Not since he tore Vilya from his flesh has he allowed himself any illusion. Sauron's rage had been almost indignant, as if the slave had cheated the master of ownership. Celebrimbor's life has value only in the Rings of Power - he will serve as a distraction. He is no great captain, no military genius to elude and frustrate Sauron; he has not hefted a sword since Alqualondë. He will die, and have ages to consider his unfortunate life in the Halls of Mandos. It is now left to him to give the one he loves most a chance at what he should have given him in the first place.

"You know that Elrond is in love with you."

"Am I to take jealousy as reason for this?"

"You misunderstand me," he says quickly. "I told you I would bind myself and my doom to no one."

"And yet we are bound just the same. You do see this?"

Celebrimbor leaves his seat and joins Gil-galad at the window. "To what purpose? Is it the will of Eru that you should be tormented so? Love is as air and water to you, Artanáro. You cannot endure without it."

"Stop!" All at once, Gil-galad's cool manner is gone. "You cannot change the laws of nature, Tyelpë! You have come to ruin doing that, and yet still, you will not stop!"

"So great is your anger! Yet much of what you wished of me was not mine to give - I cannot replace those you have lost. You will drown in your grief, Artanáro." He touches Gil-galad's shoulder tentatively. "My time is short-."

"Time may be short for all of us."

"Then open your heart to him. Let him be what I have not been to you."

"Perhaps it would ease your conscience, but it would not ease mine."

"You love him."

Gil-galad whips around to face him. "It is a passing fancy, nothing more. I have never betrayed you."

"No, you would not. But I do not think that a fancy may be called 'passing' after more than an ennin."

"Elves do not love more than once. Even were it not forbidden, it is impossible."

"And yet you do."

"It is impossible."

* * *

"What is said today must go no further than these walls." Gil-galad looks at each member of the King's Council in turn, lingering long on Arphenion. "If you feel you cannot keep this in confidence, you will find a ship going in West in Mithlond. I daresay some of you will wish to take that route ere we are through today."

He stands at the head of the table; drawn to his impressive height, his eyes piercing in their brightness, he is every bit as formidable as Fingolfin. The elf-lords glance at one another uneasily.

"We have discovered that the Shadow is already known to us. In times past, we named him Sauron." He pauses while hisses of dismay run the course of the table. "We know, too, that he assumed fair form as Annatar. That much, we will reveal to our friends - and to those who are less than friendly. The rest must remain secret.

"A Ring of Power has been forged," he continues.

As the story unfolds yet again, Celebrimbor stares at the table, unable to meet the eyes of the other elf-lords. Still, their eyes burn through him, some in anger, others in pity.

"The One Ring has only made Sauron more fearful," Gil-galad concludes. "We face not the Maia who defeated Finrod, but one of still greater dread."

A long silence falls.

"I will remind you," Arphenion says at length, "that I advised you to force Annatar from Eregion long ere this Ring was made."

"Yes - and the others may know that you attempted to stir a revolt against me, that we would have reason to go to war with him. Had we slain our kin in Eregion, I have no doubt that the ears of the Valar would now be closed against us."

"Perhaps he intended to use the Three to achieve just that, as Morgoth turned us against one another in the First Age," Gildor muses. "To turn Eregion against Forlindon would do the work of all the Orcs in Hithaeglir."

Celebrimbor lifts his head reluctantly. "You may be right," he says, recalling the temptation Sauron had shown him. "He did not expect that we would know him, or that we would reject his lies."

"Yet, it is certain that he now prepares for war against the Elves," Elemmakil says.

"I do not think Sauron marches upon us just yet. The power he wields is beyond even him. His original plan has failed, and he does not possess the other Rings," Círdan says. "He will be sure of his strength before he comes forth."

"He will turn toward Eregion when he does," Arphenion says, glancing at Celebrimbor.

"He dearly wants those Rings," Celebrimbor says grimly.

"He can set the whole city - and its lord - afire, and it would be no loss." Elemmakil says.

"Elemmakil," Luinel chides him. "Did you not hear Gildor's words?" She turns to Gil-galad. "What forces does he gather? Orcs, Men? What of Balrogs and werewolves?"

"We do not know, hirilen," Elrond says. "Orcs, certainly, and we know Sauron has already had dealings with Men. Of other evils, we have heard no rumour."

"Sauron would be hard-put to control a Balrog, if any escaped the War of Wrath," Círdan says. "They are also Maiar."

"But werewolves, he bred himself," Gil-galad says. (2)

"Could we not attack first, before he is ready?"

"I have given that much thought, Gildor. We are not prepared yet to do battle with him, and we do not know precisely where he is," Gil-galad says. "I have written to Minastir, in hopes that I might persuade him - and his father-sister Tar Telperien - that the peril is not ours alone. The Edain remember Sauron and have no love for him. Beyond, our prayers rest with the Valar." (3)

* * *

He wakes to find Gil-galad in a chair drawn near the bed. Throwing back the covers, he sits up and reaches out to cover Gil-galad's hand with his own. "You are cold."

"I would be less so had you thought to bank the fire."

"I am-." Sorry? The word has lost its meaning; it has not the depth of what he feels. He bites his lip and reaches tentatively to run his fingers through Gil-galad's hair, closing his eyes against tears as the silk caresses his fingers.

"I am terrified," Gil-galad says in a whisper. "My father was never the same, after Sauron took Tol Sirion. None have suffered as Ingoldo did at his hand. What strength have I, Moriquendu, against him?"

"He fears you, Artanáro. He has feared you since you were small. What fate he has seen for himself is our hope. He fears you still."

He cannot read, in the embers' dying glow, whether Gil-galad is better or worse for his words.

* * *

At first light, he gathers the few necessities he had carried from Eregion. When he emerges from the bath, he finds a packet of letters next to his satchel. He had hoped that Gil-galad would see him off. This is not the parting he would have wished.

At the palace gates, his mount and escort await him. He stalls, making adjustment to his pack and checking the horse's shoes. At last, Gil-galad emerges from the great doors.

"I intended to miss you."

"I know." Leave-takings are painful for Gil-galad, and this one more so. "I should not go, if you-."

"No." Gil-galad puts his finger against Celebrimbor's lips. "It is better if we do not speak of it. Love lingers, though I wish it were not so. It is a failing in the Quendi, love cannot grow cold."

He bows his head; the last judgement has been passed. "By your leave, Tauren."

Gil-galad steps back as he mounts his horse. "May your journey be safe and swift."

The party turns toward the Mithlond road. Celebrimbor risks a backward glance; Gil-galad is gone.

* * *

(1) _O Ñgaurhoth_ (S)  
Of Werewolves. _o_ takes the stop mutation, and _gaurhoth_ is one of the special words derived from Eldarin _ñg_. _o_ does not precisely follow the pattern of _e_ , which also induces the stop mutation - where _e_ would add a consonant, _o_ is unchanged. _en_ before _gaurhoth_ is a special case, however - the _-n_ actually represents _ñg_. Since our orthography is only an approximation of a language meant to be written in Tengwar, I decided to do away with any quibbles over _o_ vs _on_ and spell _gaurhoth_ with the nasalised stop. (Helge Fauskanger, _Ardalambion_ website, 'Sindarin: the Noble Tongue')

(2) 'But werewolves, he bred himself.'  
This is unclear. Sauron is called 'lord of werewolves' in _The Silmarillion_ , and is master of Draugluin, sire of all werewolves. ('Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin' p 182; 'Of Beren and Lúthien' p 206 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) However, Tolkien never explicitly tells us whether Sauron or Morgoth first bred them.

(3) 'his father-sister Tar Telperien'  
The Númenórean succession is a bit complicated here. Telperien was the eldest child of the previous king of Númenor, Tar Súrion. According to the law of succession as stated in 'Aldarion and Erendis', a daughter would only inherit if there were no sons. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , p 218 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) However, Súrion did have a son, Isilmo, who was in turn the father of Minastir. For an explanation, we must turn to _LOTR_ , in which the law simply states that the oldest child, whether son or daughter, would inherit. ('Appendix A' p 1025 pub Houghton Mifflin) Finally, the year in which Tar Telperien passed the sceptre to Minastir is debatable. In the 'Tale of Years-Second Age', the entry for 1700 states that _Tar_ Minastir sent a fleet to Gil-galad's aid. ( _Ibid_ , 'Appendix B' p 1058) I've interpreted this to refer to his future title, as in 'The Line of Elros', he does not become king until 1731. ( _Unfinished Tales_ , p 230)


	18. Forlond SA 1695

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Wendy for beta-read. Any errors have been introduced post-beta.

"I see now, what is new here!" Pengolodh exclaims. "That is a more than fair likeness of our dearest Idril."

"The artist knew how much I admired the portrait, and bequeathed his work to me when he left these shores. I find her calming."

Pengolodh's eyes mist in memory. "It is my hope that I shall meet her again in the Blessed Realm."

"You cannot be persuaded to stay, then?"

"I fear not. I am no warrior. I have passed my life avoiding the very events of which I write. It has never been my desire to become a part of history - I prefer to observe it."

Gil-galad sighs. "I cannot say that I am wholly surprised, yet it is a great blow to lose your counsel and friendship. I have few in whom I can confide so freely."

"I do wish that you and Hîr Celebrimbor had been reconciled."

"Wishes come of a barren tree, I fear. The leaves return each year, but never again will the tree bear fruit."

Pengolodh frowns. "You once had more faith."

"I once had reason for faith."

"Faith comes not from reason," Pengolodh begins, but his next words are lost.

With a perfunctory knock, Moebeth enters the study. "I am sorry to disturb you, Tauren."

"Indeed, I gave orders that I was _not_ to be disturbed."

Moebeth bows. "A messenger has come from Tharbad in great haste, and will speak to none but the King."

A chill of certainty runs through his bones. "I will see you anon, good Pengolodh."

Pengolodh rises. _"Bronwe i dangadad na estel, ist far uin nad i ú-genim._ Think on this, if you will hear one last lesson from your teacher." (1)

In Pengolodh's wake comes a young elf still clothed in his travel cloak. He might wear the green of Nenuial or the grey of Mithlond for the dirt he has collected, and he moves stiffly, as if he has scarcely sat but astride a horse for many days. Leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him, he remembers to bow only at the last minute.

"What news do you bring, lieutenant?"

"The Drúedain flee from the hills - it is not their way to fly but to fight, but this army overwhelms them. War is upon us, Tauren."

* * *

He counts, to pass the time. He counts weights of gold and silver and counts the suits of armour and swords they will buy; he counts the remains of the Treasury and the elves boarding ships bound for Valinor. He counts the adversaries faced in training exercises and the mortal wounds he delivers; he counts each death he suffers.

He counts the steps to his chambers and the long hours of the night. He counts the sunsets, wondering which numeral shall signify the sundown of his reign.

So eight dozen years have passed, in a reckoning of days and hours and minutes that have seemed interminable. This news demands movement - now, every second must count. They have prepared for this, training gentle artists in the art of war and turning all arts to the crafting of weaponry, but he has not prepared himself.

The night has drawn into its darkest hours when he enters Arphenion's rooms. The bedchamber door does little to muffle the sounds within, and he is appalled to recognise the voice of his own scribe. Grimacing, Gil-galad knocks sharply on the door.

"Why disturb me now if you did not feel his message was urgent enough to discuss this afternoon?" Arphenion asks sourly. Even in dressing gown and tousled hair, he intimidates.

"I hardly think your nocturnal romps take precedence over duty to your King."

"Envy is unbecoming an Elf, Tauren" Arphenion smirks. "Shall we use my study? We will have need of maps."

"It is a pity I cannot send you West with Pengolodh's ship. But the Valar do not want you, either - I cannot imagine why."

Arphenion laughs and unlocks the door to his study. He lights a lantern as Gil-galad studies the map of Eriador. Here and there, tokens mark guarded outposts. Cirth, drawn in blue ink, show the garrisons in Eregion, Tharbad and Harlond; red ink marks the Númenórean stronghold at Lond Daer.

"According to the lieutenant, the army is massing just beyond the gap between Hithaeglir and the Ered Nimrais. They will march upon Eregion - that is certain - but can they leave the garrison at Tharbad behind them? The city is poorly defended, but Sauron will not know that."

"His spies are everywhere. He knows us far too well."

Gil-galad unfolds the letter from the captain at Tharbad and hands it to Arphenion. "In any event, we cannot help Tharbad - our worry must be Eregion."

"Sauron has not been idle," Arphenion says, reading the letter.

"No."

"Well, neither have we."

* * *

He draws a vicious line through his words: another letter for the fire. The Númenórean freighter docked at Mithlond waits upon him; nothing but an urgent prayer for help will do. Were his dealings only with Minastir, he would have dispatched the letter sooner, but Tar Telperien still holds the sceptre. Though her correspondence with him leaves military matters to Minastir's discretion, she hints that he has not been candid with Númenor, a charge he cannot refute.

"Herdir Elrond awaits you."

"You may send him in to me. And Lindir?"

"Tauren?"

"You might wish to review the Laws and Customs. You would do well to remember that they are the law of this realm."

The scribe barely voices his response. "I will."

Gil-galad picks up his quill again as Elrond enters.

"Is everything right with your scribe?"

"I do not see that it is your concern."

"I guess it is not."

Gil-galad glances up. "You will have heard by now that Sauron's forces have entered Eriador. I have sent word to Círdan - upon his arrival, we will have a council of war. While we await him, I want you to select messengers to the men and elves of Eriador."

"I would take the messaging upon myself, if you are so inclined."

"I am not." He turns his attention again to the letter. "You may go."

Elrond remains standing before his desk. "Have I displeased you in some manner?"

"Why do my counsellors question my every decision?"

"That was not my meaning." Elrond places his hand on the parchment, smearing the ink. "You have changed, mellon. Some on the King's Council have wondered if the ring you hold affects you, but you are not so weak-minded."

Forced to meet Elrond's eyes, Gil-galad reels at what he sees: less anger than passion, less warmth than concern, less pride than hurt. His infatuation is all the more shameful beside Elrond's discretion; all these years the peredhel has loved him, yet kept his heart close.

He does not consider what might have been had he bound himself to Elrond rather than Celebrimbor - such thoughts are not within the capacity of an Elf's imagination. Once bound, to imagine oneself with another spouse is akin to imagining oneself with fins rather than feet: absurd. Nonetheless, he wonders what it would be like to taste Elrond's skin, to burn in his arms and grapple in passion. Too easily, he can imagine it, and he is grateful for the desk that conceals him. "I fear I have not been myself," he admits.

"No," Elrond agrees, and sits. "I even feel that I must ask for your leave to sit, though we have not been so formal with one another since Forlond was newly founded. You once relied upon my counsel. Whereas you once trusted me to manage tasks of delicacy, I now find myself swimming in orders to purchase and settlements of estates. Your trust has been disappointed, and it has hardened your heart to those you once named _gwador_." (2)

'Be glad, Elrond Peredhel, that I do not keep you in my close counsel these days, for my thoughts would reveal me to be as lecherous as Arphenion,' he thinks. With a deep breath, he meets Elrond's eyes squarely. "Hard I may seem, but harder still are the choices before me - to spare one is to doom another."

"You need not tell me of the nature of war."

"No, I suppose I need not." He picks up his quill again. "That is all," he adds. Elrond's chair grates against stone; silent feet take him to the door, a retreating form just visible in the periphery of Gil-galad's view. The door swings open, but the drop of the latch never follows. Reluctantly, he looks up.

"You might," Elrond says, "be less hard on yourself."

* * *

They meet in Arphenion's study. The King's counsellors gather around the same map that he and Arphenion had studied several nights ago. He gives a tight smile of apology to Círdan, for he had no time to greet him on his arrival, and motions the Council to be seated.

Rolling up the map, he casts it into the fire. "That map shall be obsolete ere this war is ended. Lake Nenuial, Tharbad, the Mannish settlements in the Downs - all shall be ruins when the map is redrawn."

"I was not aware that you had called us hither to discuss our defeat," Elemmakil says.

Gil-galad unrolls a new map. Black arrows show the information he has received just last night - the unfortunate captain at Tharbad, doomed by Gil-galad's own decision, has proved most daring and resourceful in tracking Sauron's movement.

This could be Beleriand, just before the Dagor Bragollach.

"We are a dwindling people. The good Men of Eriador will fall, one village after another. They have no leader to unite them. I am sending Elrond with such troops as we can spare to Eregion." He glances at Elrond, whose face tightens slightly. "We must hope to buy time. With the aid of Númenor, we may yet avoid defeat."

"Galdor will lead a company from Mithlond and Harlindon," Círdan says.

He glances at the lord of the House of the Tree in surprise; Galdor - with good reason - has no love for the House of Fëanor.

Galdor, aware of his scrutiny, gives a wry smile. "My lord asks, and I cannot refuse."

"Celeborn leads the forces now stationed at Eregion, though I doubt you will find Galadriel sewing banners and making bandages," Gil-galad continues.

They bend their heads over the map, discussing Sauron's probable movements and the eventual siege of Ost-in-Edhil. Celeborn has not been idle these years, but has built a formidable defence around the city. Gil-galad means to turn Sauron's obsession with the rings against him. Eregion will fall - surely, the Council realises this. Yet, if his strategy is sound, Sauron will lead a lesser army upon Lindon.

Orders and assignments dispatched, he dismisses the Council. He looks for Círdan; with a nod, it is settled: they will supp together in his chambers. Arphenion follows close on his heels as they leave the room.

"How very convenient for you," he laughs softly, his eyes on Elrond's departing figure.

"What is your meaning?"

"Come, you are not so thick-headed. You have captains many years his elder, who have long been charged with defence of your realm."

"Elrond fought in the War of Wrath. He is hardly inexperienced."

"Still, he is a queer choice. I should think that you would want your highest counsellor near to you."

"Had I want of your advice, I would ask for it." He turns toward the stairs. "I have a letter to write to Númenor, Captain. I daresay you, too, have much to do."

"It is a treacherous thing, Tauren, to have your favour."

'Yes,' Gil-galad thinks. 'It is.'

* * *

"The city, a fair jewel of the great arts of the Noldor, shall be laid to ruin and her people slaughtered. I should have evacuated the city. One would think I wished to see him in Mandos."

"Do you?"

"That is just the trouble," he says, clenching and unclenching his hands. "I let him return to Ost-in-Edhil, and even then, I knew we must lose the city. Any fool can see that his secrets - and the other rings - would be better kept here."

"That is not the only reason you did not abandon Eregion," Círdan says placidly. "Sit and eat. This hovering is not good for the digestion."

He throws himself into his chair and eyes the potatoes malevolently. "Oh, my reasons were good, and they still are. We could not let Sauron march across Eriador unopposed. Moreover, the queen of Númenor is already suspicious - had we fled the very city that so long hosted Annatar, she might well have asked questions I would not like to answer." Giving up his battle with the potatoes, he reaches for his wine. "Nonetheless, I fear my intent is far less noble."

"It is the convenience of it that troubles you."

He stares at Círdan. "So said Arphenion."

"Does the opinion of a rogue matter so much to you?"

"You know it does not. Yet, too often, he reads me aright." He twists uncomfortably in his chair. "I could have recalled him from Eregion - if I cannot save the city, I might have saved him."

"He would not have come."

"No." He starts forward in his chair, torn by the need to speak and the fear he will reveal too much. "Yet now I send Elrond, my - my most trusted counsellor," he falters, "to meet a host so vast it is called a great storm upon the horizon by those who have seen it. To what do I send him but death?"

Círdan's lips twitch. "Do you also wish me dead, or is this murderous instinct of yours more particular?" He glances up. "Ereinion, leave the potatoes be. A few tubers will not poison the whole plate."

He sighs ruefully, feeling as ridiculous as a boy of forty.

"Elrond is the right choice - you know this, though you do not yet know the whole of it. As for Celebrimbor, he knows what he must do. Brooding will bring you neither victory nor peace.

"The Valar have placed their trust in the Elves. We are their stewards and messengers - a light to the free peoples of Ennor against the gathering darkness. None would blame you, Ereinion, if you fell to despair, for there fell your forebears." Círdan sets down his fork and looks at him fondly. "You are made of a stronger wood. The Valar count upon it."

* * *

"I wish you had told me, beforehand, of your plans. I do not like to appear a fool." Elrond stares down at him from the door to his sitting room.

Sprawled across the settee, Gil-galad raises his glass. "Sit! Have some of the wine - we will not be seeing its like for some time."

Elrond pours a glass of wine, but refuses the invitation to sit.

"No one knew it, save me. You are exceptionally hard to read, Peredhel. Do you object to the assignment?"

"In Galdor's words, my lord asks, and I obey. I did not come here to argue with your wisdom, Gil-galad."

"My wisdom," he laughs softly. "Rather, my weakness." He sways to his feet and stumbles, finding himself a hand's breadth from Elrond as he straightens. "I dared no longer have you near." He presses his mouth to Elrond's, feeling hungry enough to devour.

He has waited long for this - wanted long to know this. And oh! He might blame the wine, sweet Dorwinion, but the thrill is no trick of wine, nor are the lips pressed to his a drunken illusion. One of the few who can stand nose-to-nose with him, Elrond might thank Thingol for his height, but his groin swells with the gift of his Mannish forebears. If Gil-galad doubted Elrond's sentiment, he doubts no more.

Elrond has the presence of mind - or the sobriety - to push him back. Flushed and plainly discomfited, he turns away. "I would have thrilled at such attentions when this Age was young, but your heart was meant for another, and still belongs to another. You do not mean this."

"Oh, but that is the trouble," Gil-galad says, falling back into the settee. "I do. I am in love with you, though it cannot be. I stand on the brink of a war I can win only with the strength of the Valar, and all I have been taught seems to be not so. Perhaps my faith in the Valar is equally ill-placed."

"You are fey with wine."

"Indeed," Gil-galad agrees. "One's most secret thoughts are laid bare by this enchanted wine, but they are not the less truthful for it."

"You confuse lust with love."

"Yet elves are no more subject to lust than to fickleness of heart, do the Laws not tell us this? Such things are impossible - save, it seems, for my father's children." Suddenly misty-eyed, he dribbles the last of the wine into his glass. " _Nan methen!_ " he salutes Elrond.

 _To the end._ The toast of _gwedeir_ , of sworn brothers pledging their lives to one another, has a grim sound tonight. With the last swallow of Dorwinion, he savours the peace of Forlond a last time. All that he has promised: security, order, an elite civilisation in Ennor rather than ignominious exile to Tol Eressëa - shall fall. Their virtuous king has already fallen, finally undeserving of the blessings of the Valar. _Faith_ , Pengolodh had said, _is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen_. The seeds of doubt have come of his own weakness.

"I am sorry," he says, setting down his glass. "I had no right - would that you might forget what has passed between us."

"It is not yours to ask," Elrond says, his face inscrutable as ever. He lays a hand on Gil-galad's shoulder. "I will call for Elwandor and leave you in his care - the wine has turned sour, I fear."

* * *

Dorwinion brings the sweetest dreams. Its morning is a cold slap across the face. What seemed sweet is dreary; the warmth now sweat and sickness. Elwandor adds wood to the fire and hangs the teakettle to boil. "You will remember that Herdir Pengolodh is to join you this morning?"

Gil-galad reaches for his dressing gown. Pengolodh will be leaving with Círdan for Mithlond this morning. Guilin, too, is going West. His admittedly small circle of trust shall grows ever smaller.

"I am sure that your arrival in Tol Eressëa shall be as gladsome to your folk as your parting is sorrowful to us," he says, welcoming the loremaster into his chambers. They sit down to breakfast and he dismisses Elwandor. "She is a fine ship, the Hithlind - I helped in her rigging myself," he continues, pouring the tea. "Do not wait on me to eat, mellon."

Pengolodh frowns at this but withholds comment as he butters his bread. "I fear I shall not have much love for the vessel, however excellent she may be. The sooner I am dryshod in Kôr, the better."

"Nonetheless, your safe passage is more assured than the fate of those who remain."

"Is it?" The loremaster's eyes glitter. "Eönwë took aside your kinsman and all but ordered him to sail, and the reason is plain enough, now. I do not recall that you were so pressed."

 _"The Valar have faith in you - that much is known to me."_ So Círdan had told him, many years ago.

He groans and sets down his tea. "The Valar must think me a whining child."

"It is no small task they have set before you. They must have known that Sauron would slip his bond."

'Did they know also that we would arm him with the power of a Vala?' he wonders, but does not say it. Pengolodh does not need his melancholy this morning. He forces a grin. "Still, I would have liked to be a fly on the wall when Eönwë reported this to Manwë."

* * *

By evening, his headache has mercifully subsided, but his shame has only grown. He must apologise, and knows equally that an apology is inadequate.

Elrond's rooms are well-ordered in their furnishing, as he would expect, but Gil-galad sees little else to attest to the rooms' occupant. As with the rooms Celebrimbor had once occupied, the fittings speak of tenancy rather than ownership. How he had hurt when he saw the lavish apartments Celebrimbor had taken in Eregion! In his heart, he had known then that Celebrimbor did not intend to quit Eregion. Likewise, he has a sense that Elrond is only passing through.

"You do not intend to stay here."

"All have tasks not presently known to us."

"Must you be so evasive?"

"I would answer more directly if the questions were those I might expect from a king."

"And from a friend?"

"Is there not a line twixt friend and lover? Long years have I known that line."

"And in one selfish moment, I have redrawn it."

Elrond presses his lips together. "You cannot know what it is to be offered what one has long desired but remains ever out of reach. A taste, if you will - it is hardly what I would call an act of friendship and brotherhood."

Gil-galad lowers his eyes. "I am sorry."

Elrond sinks into a chair with a sigh. "I do not fault you. You are lonely, and grieving, and I have found neither lord nor maid to stir my heart as you did in our youth. And we have always understood one another."

"Not so well as we thought."

"No." Elrond is silent for a moment. "I will go to Eregion, as you wish, and perhaps save us both."

Gil-galad sighs with relief. "I am glad that you see it so. I feared - it was said, and I feared the accusation was right -."

Elrond raises his eyebrows, amused. "I do not intend to get myself killed, Gil-galad." He sobers. "But I am not certain of my return." He gestures at the minimal décor. "I have served you, because I love you - as my sovereign king. It has not been an easy thing, when my heart desired more."

Gil-galad laughs bitterly. "You must think me a fool."

"Our hearts are not so easily guided. Should one not feel loathing for one's captors, who have visited death and suffering upon one's people? Yet, Maglor and Maedhros were fathers to me. Should one not feel loathing for one's lover, who has betrayed the very people one is sworn to protect? And yet, you love him." Elrond stands and takes his hands in his. "I did not wish this for you." (3)

'No, of course you would not,' Gil-galad thinks, extracting his hands from Elrond's; they are too warm and soft around his rough and callused fingers. The Peredhel is grace itself, whereas he wavers between wishing his lover dead, shameful lust for another, and clamouring fear that begs him to recall Celebrimbor from Eregion. In the doorway, he pauses. "Do what you can to save him."

* * *

It is late when he retires; he has already sent Elwandor to bed. He changes into his nightshirt and sits at his dressing table. As he releases the clasp from his hair, the mirror catches its glittering reflection. Slowly, he turns the delicate mithril jewel in his hands.

_I am not as perfect as you thought, Tyelpë. Do you not see how I have tarnished, while this clasp is as bright as the day you made it? Is this what it was like? Did you feel outshone, ever more tarnished beside me?_

He buries his head in his hands. Understanding has come late to him; forgiveness, too late. His better counsel would tell him that he has made the right choices as High King and guardian of his people, but he wishes to be as pure in thought as deed. His selfish heart has made its choices, for good or evil.

* * *

(1) _Bronwe i dangadad na estel, ist far uin nad i ú-genim.  
_ 'Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.'  
This is Hebrews 11:1, which I feel Tolkien must have had in mind when he wrote about the meaning of _estel_ in 'Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth'. (Morgoth's Ring, p 320 pub Houghton Mifflin)  
(lit: Faith (is) the establishing of hope, knowledge enough of the thing which we do not see. _i dangadad_ , gerund of _tangada_ -, establish, lenited to _dangadad_ following the article _i_ ; _i ú-genim_ , which we do not see - _i_ is used here to mean 'that' or 'which', _cenim_ is the 1st pers pl of _cen-_ , lenited following the negation _ú_.)

(2) _gwador  
_ sworn brother

(3) Yet, Maglor and Maedhros were fathers to me.  
I'm not particularly fond of the fanon that Gil-galad fostered Elrond and Elros. It does not necessarily conflict with canon, but there's no support for it, either. In _The Silmarillion_ , we are told that Maglor and Maedhros kept the boys. ( _The Silmarillion_ p 255 pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition) The notion that they were returned to their people on Balar comes from a linguistic explanation for their names. ( _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_ , Letter No 211 p 282 pub Houghton Mifflin) However, one would think that Elwing and Eärendil had already named the children. Moreover, it is not said who cared for them after they were found and Tolkien eventually abandoned the linguistic explanation for their names. To infer that Gil-galad fostered the boys is a huge stretch. He was relatively young himself, and had enough on his plate as the High King. If the Peredhel were 'rescued', it seems likely that either Círdan or Celeborn would have fostered them.


	19. Ost-in-Edhil, SA 1697

As yet, no orc has approached the Bar-i-Mírdain, but not for fear of the jewel-smiths, who stand silent and motionless, swords at hand, prepared to face Mandos. No, the orcs look upon the gilded building with hunger, but pass on in an endless stream. They fear their master too well, and know his coming.

They have not been able to destroy the Nine and the six he holds of the Seven; the ruling Ring's will could not be overcome. At the last, he has hidden them, calling upon every Dwarven charm and beneficence of Aulë he knows. However, they are to bargain. His concern lies with the Three.

His flesh tingles with dread as Sauron enters the square. He wears the same fair fana, but with the Ring to hand, he is unmasked. How has Celebrimbor been so blind to what the Moriquendi saw at first meeting?

At Sauron's signal, the orcs are upon them, and though the Mírdain are not warriors, they bravely hold as long as they can. Celebrimbor had known their defence would be futile, and had tried to persuade them to look to their own safety, but honour is the last refuge of the defeated, and they would not leave him. He agonises now to see them so cruelly slain. Yet greater agony would it be were Sauron to keep any alive.

Finally, he stands alone. The sword is strange in his hands; he has fashioned many but wielded none since Alqualondë. He delivers a few orcs to their fates, but too easily. They are to take him alive, and at last, they do.

* * *

"Shall we sit? We have much to discuss, you and I," Annatar says. He motions to a chair and dismisses the orcs who hold Celebrimbor captive.

He takes the chair opposite him, and here, in Celebrimbor's receiving room, they lack only tea service to pretend that this is a reunion of long-sundered friends.

"I knew you would be forging the Three," Annatar says. "I certainly left you enough hints. I did not anticipate that you would translate my little rhyme so quickly - you saved me the trouble of returning to the city to finish the rings." (1)

"I am glad that I could help you so," Celebrimbor retorts. "But this language of yours - it was easy enough to decipher. It is not particularly imaginative."

"It will serve." He leans forward. "I showed you what it would be to rule, to take what is rightfully yours by virtue of the eldest blood, but instead, you have betrayed me."

"You know me less well than you think, then, if you imagine I should ever have wanted such a thing, even before I knew your true nature."

"True nature? I have been naught but what I have showed you to be. I gave you knowledge, and did you not create wondrous things with it? I offered the chance to save your people, to arrest the weariness cursed upon them - to do what Gil-galad cannot do for them. It was an offer most sincerely given. I like you, Celebrimbor. You have been most useful to me."

"Your offer comes at a price."

"Its refusal comes at a greater price."

"No Elf has ever willingly allied with Morgoth or his servants. I shall not be the first."

Annatar raises his eyebrows, evidently amused by this. "From your thought sprung the very notion of the rings. Your work shall be, as your grandfather would say, a matter of song until the last days of Arda." (2,3)

The blood drains from his face. To be tricked into doing the work of Sauron is shame enough, but to serve Sauron as no one else could is pure villainy. How low he has fallen, from the elf who optimistically affixed the Star of Fëanor to the West Door.

"But come, I do not expect heroics from one who has done no more than stand aside. We are much alike, you and I - we have survived, and in circumstances such as ours, that in itself is commendable. I am afraid I cannot grant you that consolation this time. You know why I have come."

"To what profit, then, should I tell you anything?"

"Need you ask that question? You may die honourably, quietly and quickly, or in screaming torment. Yet, make your choice. I lose patience."

He is silent.

"Do not be a fool, Celebrimbor. I will have the rings and I will march upon Forlond, and do you think that your Mornedhel lover will refuse my terms? You have overesteemed him. He is ultimately practical, and not nearly so righteous as he would have you believe. He will do what is necessary to save his city."

Therein lies Sauron's weakness. Power, he understands. That Gil-galad will be most concerned with the Havens, he cannot comprehend. To evacuate his subjects to Tol Eressëa and die in their defence, would be, in Sauron's eyes, the worst kind of defeat.

"You spoke once of Men's love of gold, but it is silver, that your Master never touched, that we Elves prize - not for power or wealth but for its beauty. Rarest of all is mithril, and that, you tried once to tarnish, and failed. It is beautiful, yes, but it is also strong, stronger than steel, harder than gold."

Sauron smiles like a serpent set to consume its living prey. "It is a strange thing, among Elves, that you pretend to such purity, yet betray one another so easily. This great love of yours - this _mithril_ \- did you think of him when you shared your bed with that dwarf?"

"I was _never_ unfaithful to him."

"Please, let us not argue semantics. You are well aware that one keeps faith in the heart, not the body."

He thinks of Ingoldo's song, how Sauron had defeated him not by trickery but truth. He cannot answer the charge, for he has not kept faith. Indeed, what has he ever done in courage or selflessness?

He had turned away first, denying their bond, refusing to see that he had a duty, one as inexorable as the one tying Gil-galad to Forlond. He imagined that he could refuse such a tie. And yet, he had loved, and still loves, and what is love without surety, without sacrifice? By selfishness, and by countless other large and small hurts, he has earned a small consolation: Gil-galad will suffer no grief at his passing.

Where he wished to make amends for the crimes of his forebears, he has unleashed untold horrors upon his people. He has treated his King with contempt and betrayed his lover. Sauron's worst will be less than he deserves.

* * *

(1) I knew you would be forging the Three  
I think Sauron knew about and intended for Celebrimbor to forge the Three:  
 _Sauron made One Ring, the Ruling Ring that contained the powers of all the others, and controlled them, so that its wearer could see the thoughts of all those that used the lesser rings, could govern all that they did, and in the end could utterly enslave them. He reckoned, however, without the wisdom and subtle perceptions of the Elves. The moment he assumed the One, they were aware of it, and of his secret purpose... ._ ( _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_ , No 131 p 152 pub Houghton Mifflin)  
Sauron expected to be able to control the Elves because they were using rings linked to the One, so he must have known about the Three. Moreover, together they forged rings for Dwarves and Men, so it would seem likely that he also a planned for rings to be forged for the Elves.

(2) From your thought sprung the very notion of the rings  
 _The Elves of Eregion made Three supremely beautiful and powerful rings,_ ** _almost solely of their own imagination_** _._ [Emphasis mine.] ( _Ibid_ )  
This is the grandson of the greatest and most innovative smith of all Elvenkind. He must have had instruction from Fëanor, and probably Mahtan and Aulë. Sauron could have forged the rings himself if he already had both the idea and the knowledge. Celebrimbor had some knowledge or abilities he did not have.

(3) matter of song until the last days of Arda  
( _The Silmarillion_ , p 79 pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition)


	20. Forlond, SA 1697

He wakes with a cry on his lips. For a moment, his own chambers are strange to him. He pours a glass of water, his hands shaking so badly the water splashes half out of the glass. All at once, the livid dream returns to him and he can taste the fear and smell the sweat of agony. The glass drops from his nerveless fingers as he falls to his knees.

_Tyelpë._

Celebrimbor's mind is utterly closed to him. He knows this is for the best - to protect the Three, to protect him.

A few minutes or an hour pass before he realises that he is still kneeling on the wet and glass-strewn floor. He rises unsteadily and goes to the window. It is well past time, he thinks, that Eärendil should begin his voyage across the sky, but the darkness is absolute. Unnaturally so.

He had sent too little help too late, and so had assured his lover's death. Could he have done otherwise? Had he let his sense of betrayal make the decision for him? The siege, focusing Sauron's attention on Ost-in-Edhil, has given him precious time to prepare for war. Had this not been the plan all along, a plan Celebrimbor endorsed?

He closes his eyes and his mind floods again with the disjointed images of that far-off place. Perhaps Celebrimbor will know that he is not alone. Perhaps he is beyond knowing anything. Of one thing Gil-galad is certain: the Three remain beyond Sauron's reach, and are still so, hours later, when dawn breaks to a grey, sunless morning and silence overwhelms him.

* * *

"You look particularly ghastly today," Arphenion greets him, stepping back to let him into his study.

Gil-galad leans over the map table. "Ost-in-Edhil has fallen. Have we sent the additional troops Elrond requested?"

"How great are our losses? Might I see the dispatch?"

"There is none. The city was taken yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Arphenion's expression changes from confusion to one that could almost pass for sympathy. "I see. I am sorry."

The map remains stubbornly unhelpful. He is desperate to take action - to make plans, decide upon their next step.

"We can do nothing until we know what has transpired."

"No," he concedes. He stumbles as he steps away from the map. The night's long vigil has cost him more than sleep.

Arphenion catches his elbow to stop him falling. "Go back to your chambers, you fool," the captain snaps. "Unless you want to frighten those who have not yet taken ship, you need to master yourself. This is no time for sentimentality."

* * *

He falls into his bed and sleeps so deeply that neither dream nor nightmare is conscious. When he wakes, he finds that Elwandor has removed his shoes and laid a quilt over him. Near the fire, the valet has left bread and sausage. He will frown in the morning to see the food untouched and the cider half gone.

_"You must find a way to see the sunrise, Ereinion."_

The starless night cedes to another grey morning. In his darkest hour, Arien has abandoned him.

* * *

"When?" Círdan asks gently.

He stares out the window. "Three days. It was not a good death." He is aware of wetness on his cheek and wipes it away. "It should not affect me so - we were sundered a long time." The pressure in his chest is so great, he cannot draw breath.

"And you have grieved for him all these years."

It is true. The years have magnified, not lessened the pain. Loneliness is the greatest of all hurts - the thought of ennin interminable in an empty bed is more than he can bear.

If he had not cut off communication, could he have persuaded Celebrimbor to see Annatar for what he was?

"No," Círdan answers his unspoken question. "You could not have done otherwise."

Gil-galad turns to argue, but Círdan silences him. "You knew Sauron when you met him. If not by name, by character. You knew what Celebrimbor did not. And the more he fell into thrall, the more he endangered you."

Love entails compromise. Yet, this would not have been compromise in the ordinary sense. He would have compromised himself, and he would have compromised the High King of the Noldor and all he that he oversees. If it has been a test to see whether he could put his kingdom before that most dear to him, he has passed.

Yet, in his heart, he knows that he has acted out of jealousy and loneliness.

_He turns in early, leaving his correspondence in Elrond's capable hands. When Celebrimbor comes to bed hours later, he smells of sweat and metal and wood-smoke. Gil-galad never quite passes the edge between living dream and fully awake, and Celebrimbor, usually as passionate as the fire consuming him, is unexpectedly tender in their lovemaking. In the morning, they find themselves tangled together like vines._

Once, they had completed one another. Such is the Doom of his kind - one lives long after the joy has gone from life, when only regret remains.

He swallows the wail rising in his throat. Arphenion is right. Sentiment is a luxury he can ill afford. He looks up to see Círdan watching him with pain.

"Both joy and sorrow come from the heart. You cannot have one without the other."

* * *

He stares numbly into the mirror as Elwandor braids his hair. It is his habit to read his personal correspondence while he takes his breakfast and is groomed to meet the day. It is long, however, since he has had anyone but Círdan to send him private letters - Aldarion is gone, Pengolodh has sailed over sea, and Elrond's missives are no more than a captain's report to his king. As for Celebrimbor...better that he not think of him, much less the letters returned unopened.

"I think you are to be the lone soul who shall remain with me to the end, Elwandor."

"No, híren. Such is not my fate. But you will not be alone."

He stands to let Elwandor pin his cloak to his shoulders. The thick serge hangs like a millstone, and he is so terribly weary.

"Do you want more tea, híren?"

"No. You may take your leave."

Neither tea nor wool is likely to bring warmth to this grey morning. The chill in his bones comes not from the air but from his heart.

* * *

With a sigh, he reads the letter from Lady Nellas of Harlond again. Normally, he would have read the letter and composed a response already, but his mind has grown thick and dull. He reads, but the tengwar leave no impression. In between sentences, his thought wanders in a shadow of dread and uncertainty. The simplest of tasks seems enormous, and his unanswered correspondence has Lindir gibbering and pointing at the stack. (1)

He understands, now, why his mother had chosen to fight and die for Nargothrond. When all else is lost, the enemy remains. With each day, the pain in his heart lessens, but the cold steals deeper inside him, wrapping him in a stupor that is neither dead nor living.

He throws down his quill in frustration. A walk, perhaps, will clear his mind.

* * *

A fine mist falls as he takes his exercise. Despite the bright winterberry and firethorn, the skeletal rose bushes remind him that this is Firith, the season of death. (2)

The few elves walking in the gardens are unrecognisable under their cloaks. One, however, stands out among them, for his beard, glistening with fine, silvery droplets, would reveal him even if he did not wear his hood thrown back in defiance of the weather.

"My mother loved this weather," he says, as Círdan falls into step beside him. "It reminded her of Lake Mithrim."

"And you do not."

"I miss the sun."

"She is not much seen in Forlindon. I told you that you chose the wrong side of the bay." Círdan is silent a moment. "Elwandor is filled with anxiety."

"I continually forget that I am not master of my own servant."

"He loves you, as I do." Círdan puts a hand on his shoulder and stops.

Gil-galad meets his eyes reluctantly. He has marshalled his energies, careful lest Círdan see how low he has sunk, but it is for naught. The ancient elf is not easily fooled, least of all by the son he raised and calls his own.

"Know your time, Ereinion. The Noldor do not need another dead king. Sauron learnt many tricks of his master, not the least of which is despair."

"I know my duty well enough," he says shortly.

Círdan will not be thrown off. "I see this darkness into which you are falling, and I fear it will be your ruin."

"My ruin?" he challenges. "Or is it my fate?"

To this Círdan returns no answer.

* * *

"So Durin turned out his strength." Arphenion tosses the paper on the desk.

Erestor has at last come from Ost-in-Edhil, bringing better news than Gil-galad has dared to expect. The city, of course, is utterly destroyed, yet still, some of its people have escaped. Galadriel and Celeborn have survived; Nenya is safe. Though Sauron has turned his eye upon Lindon, he leaves an army unfought behind him.

"I have a company awaiting orders. How many troops will you send to Elrond?"

"I can send none."

Arphenion smirks. "You do not mean to take another lover."

"If I intended to get my captain killed, I would have sent you," Gil-galad snaps from his station by the window. The clouds hang low, almost black in their malevolence. He wonders if the darkness stretches all the way to Eregion. Is Sauron's arm indeed so long?

"Do you intend to do anything at all?"

He turns to face Arphenion. "I have others who would command my army and give me much less trouble. You would do well to keep that in mind." He walks toward the desk and retraces his steps to the window, scarcely aware of his pacing. "Celeborn's troops are lost to me, whereas Elrond's company is only a diversion. If our scouts are right, the enemy already prepares to march on Eriador. We are seriously outnumbered, and more take ship each day."

"To Angband with your numbers!" Arphenion's lachenn eyes blaze.

"Numbers are no trifle. Or did you learn nothing in the last Age?"

"As I recall, it was your own father whose failure of courage deprived us of your 'numbers'."

He will not be baited. "You made a trial without your full strength, and it brought utter ruin to the Elves of the North. I do not intend to make that mistake. We will hold the Havens to the last, but Eru willing, it shall not come to that."

"If you wait upon the Valar, you will wait long, Tauren. In that, at least, Sauron speaks rightly."

"The Valar will do as they see fit. Númenor, however, has pledged to help us."

"Númenor!" Arphenion raises his arms in disgust.

"They will come."

"They are Men."

"The Edain have failed us but once. They will come."

Arphenion laughs softly. "I will say that you can hold a grudge. If you bear half so much resentment for Sauron... _tôl acharn_ , as that foolish man's father once said." (3)

Arphenion's voice fades away as a vision forms in his mind. It is his ruin and it is his destiny. Tôl acharn, indeed.

He has cut away the dying flesh, the grief and guilt, and all that remains of his heart is stone, a cold weight of revenge. He will have it, in the end. If revenge takes him to the Halls of Mandos, so be it.

He intends to take Sauron with him.

* * *

(1) Lady Nellas of Harlond  
Yes, this is meant to be Nellas of Doriath. I was trying to come up with a canonical elf who might be a sort of mayor in Harlond, and it occurred to me that Nellas does not die a horrible death like everyone else in the Silm.

(2) Firith, the season of death  
 _Firith_ technically means 'fading', but it comes from the root _PHIR-_ , from which various words for death and mortal are also derived.

(3) _Tôl acharn  
_ 'Vengeance comes.' ( _The War of the Jewels_ , 'The Wanderings of Húrin' p 254 pub Houghton Mifflin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but the story is finished at last. Constructive criticism is always welcome.


End file.
